Assimilation
by AvidAkiraReader
Summary: Accordingly, when one absorbed, or consumed, a dragon's soul, they could learn the Thu'um just like that. In reality, it did quite a bit more. AU. Gen.
1. Danaë

Assimilation

Cut Summary: Accordingly, when one absorbed, or consumed, a dragon's soul, they could just learn the Thu'um like that. In reality, it did quite a bit more than that. AU. Gen.

Real Summary: Official knowledge has it that absorbing, or in this case, consuming a dragon's soul enables them to learn the Thu'um instantly. The High Elf Dragonborn, Danaë, learns that a 'soul' entitles much more than the ability to speak the Thu'um and that her natural mental defenses as Dovahkiin fade fairly fast when there are eight millennia-old dragon souls trying to meld and impart to her their knowledge, fighting techniques, and everything they can possibly give including bloody memories. How lucky is she that a dragon has the mental endurance to help her through it? A story told through drabbles. AU

Disclaimer: Skyrim, Tamriel, Altmer, etc. belong to Bethesda. The name Danaë is taken from one of Zeus's lovers, a golden-haired lady who birthed Perseus.

* * *

**First**

-0-

"_It enables them to use the dragon's ability to absorb a slain dragon's soul, thereby receiving knowledge of the Thu'um rather than having to learn it through practice_." –Elder Scrolls Wikia

-0-

**Introductions**

Danaë is a High Elf who's forsaken her family name in order to run from political enemies. Of course, being one of the Altmer is already conspicuous, but she is fairly confident that despite the Thalmor in Skyrim, no one will recognize little Danaë.

And then she tries crossing the thrice-damned border, is knocked out, and subsequently thrown into the back of a wagon with Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, a man named Ralof, and some tanned horsethief who claims to have come from Rorikstead.

Not many Altmer would be depressed at her position—they take joy from the cruelest and humorous of things, and Danaë is one who's _become_ one with gallows humor.

At her seat, she's taller than all the rest of the Nords and certainly more exotic. The simplistic tattoos on her brow and the sides of her eyes are merely helpful in pointing this out rather than her placement in the High Elf hierarchy.

Everybody doesn't notice this except her, but at least Danaë manages to keep a straight face.

**Dragon**

She's absolutely terrified. A black-scaled dragon has come over Helgen, just at the moment of her execution. It breathes fire like any of its kind, but the High Elf is certain that only she can hear the distinct roars of _yol_ that triggers the flames.

This dragon is either her savior or her murderer, Danaë decides quickly, pressing her back against a wall it clings to. The stream of flame continues again, and when she sprints after Hadvar, she can feel its eyes boring into her back.

**Fighting Technique**

Danaë has pride (she probably shouldn't, but her own father was a one-of-a-kind elf who rebelled against everything stereotypical) in saying that she wields swords better than magic—one of her more common ways of fighting is getting in dirty and then shoving a constant stream of sparks or fire in their face.

She hasn't the time or the pluckiness of a mage to buy and learn new spells. She's more worried about how her archery skills hold up when she uses iron-tipped arrows rather than her pilfered Orcish ones.

**Official Retrieval**

Danaë had expectations when she goes to Bleak Falls Barrow to retrieve some odd Dragonstone for the pale and slight Farengar, court magician of Jarl Balgruuf's Hold. Riverwood's denizens have told her horror stories, and the latest she has encountered so far—bandits—are not terrifying aside from the fact that they have keener eyesight than she does. She's a little disappointed by this.

And then she goes inside the Barrow, and orange, cat-like eyes witness their first draugr.

She generically has a panic attack and aims one gloved hand clutching fire at the skeleton with eerie blue eyes. The walking corpse burns quickly, and while she may have a wound from the clumsy swings, she now pockets three tarnished septims.

Poverty is a sickeningly contagious disease that floats around Tamriel, and Danaë knows that if she's to rise above that, she'll have to resort to stealing from the dead.

**Word**

Danaë thinks she's hallucinating. A carving in the wall, clearly foreign and clearly made for someone with much bigger hands than humans or any other humanoid race, has engraved itself in her mind. It's _transferred_ in some kind of stream of iridescent blue light to encircle her body like some giant domestic cat.

She's panicking because she can hear a ringing in her head, and now she knows what this word means due to some inexplicable circumstance.

_Fus_. It repeats in her head, over and over, _fus, force, fus, force_. It translates through her head repetitively, and Danaë can pretty think she's somehow turned into a freak because she only recognizes this combination of scratches on the wall and nothing else.

And then something rises out of a coffin, and Danaë forgets the matter at the moment because she'd like to live and find this overrated Dragonstone for Farengar.

**Dragon Fight**

In all honesty, when Danaë faces her second dragon, she doesn't fear very much for her life. Her father used to tease her for her endurance to any pain, or on the rare occasions when his political enemies got angry, poison. 'A skin and blood as thick as any dragon of old,' he used to say proudly. As a High Elf, Danaë knew that they had already had a bit of resistance to magic because of their affinity so being able to shrug off physical wounds is just a major bonus for the thin and tall Elf.

She retreats into the tower instinctively to seek out cover and finds a long, winding staircase. As she heads to the top, Danaë figures out pretty fast that it's not smart to stay on a flat rooftop and shoot iron arrows at the dragon's scaly head. She heads back down and joins fighting it directly.

Danaë notices the dragon's faltering movements only after she has jabbed its wing with her Imperial-pilfered sword. Luckily for her closed-mouth tendencies, Irileth sees this too and encourages the men that it is _dying_ and they are _winning_. They mustn't have won things often, thinks Danaë absentmindedly, if they can reinvigorate their attacks with a clear happiness.

And then she hears a masculine, thunderous, _terrified_ voice: _Dovahkiin, no_!

Her shocked brain locks her body in place, and despite that plea, her left hand mindlessly aims at the dragon's head and lets loose that final stream of electrical sparks.

**Dragon Soul**

She doesn't know what to make of the forlorn corpse except that she should approach it (_him_). It's like some kind of irresistible pull and Danaë doesn't resist it. She strokes his scaly head tentatively, feeling his cold scales with awe. Then the dragon's body begins to flake, and his flesh starts dissolving to dust. A maelstrom of swirling lights encircle her, much like her experience with learning that foreign word _fus_, but this time, she enjoys it.

It's warm being in the eye of this tornado, and when it sinks into her golden skin, Danaë is slack with content and is feeling like she's oozing comfort.

When she opens her orange eyes to see the world again, she feels an insistent but soft knocking in the back of her brain. Danaë puzzles over this briefly before a guard approaches her with caution dogging his steps.

"Dragonborn," the Nord whispers in his accent, rolling the word around as if it was legend.

Actually, she wouldn't be surprised if the denotation _was_ a legend.

After awkward questions and a haughty dismissive comment from Irileth, the guards begin to chivy her back to Whiterun, because this is a discovery that should _never_ be kept secret. This is the Dragonborn, the bringer of peace, the one who can speak in the dragon's tongue without decades of training!

**Summoning**

The sound is deafening, especially to an Altmer's delicate ears.

"_Dovahkiin_!" the wind howls, and the ground rumbles with it. When they return to Dragonsreach, Jarl Balgruuf apparently recognizes this as _the_ summoning from _the_ Greybeards who reside near the top of the highest mountain in Skyrim. She is not pleased that she'll eventually have to climb that mountain but accepts it as something to do a bit later.

Circling the damn mountain takes more time—finding Ivarstead even more. The road signs are convoluted, and at best, she has found Riften which is full of scoundrels and burly men who try and frighten Danaë.

At least, she muses, opening her map with angry fervor, there's always the river to follow.

Ivarstead then fades to the back of her mind as Windhelm, Solitude, and a little Hold called Morthal call to her.

**Pilgrimage**

It takes some time to reach Ivarstead; in fact, it takes _forever_ to find the small, quiet, and gossipy village. She is wiser, more battle smart, and much more in tune with her inner thief, but it takes more than a week to reach the village by river. Add that to the five months in which she has wandered around Skyrim, and Danaë's reaching five months and one week in which she has ignored the summoning from the Greybeards.

It's really impolite to ignore such things, but Danaë knows that if she tried to go there at once, she surely would've died at that point. It is better if she went now, when she knows how to navigate around branches, cross giant camps, endure swamps, and hold back eccentric tidbits of history from flooding out of her mouth.

Actually, the latter is a new problem, and the very reason why she is surveying the mountain at which High Hrothgar resides. On her back are a couple of weapons, dried rations, and a bag of supplies that a man named Klimmek has given her.

If this is to be a pilgrimage—_it is a pilgrimage because you're climbing seven thousand steps to see a group of old men who summoned you five months ago_—then she might as well treat it as one. She has dropped off all her precious jewels and miscellaneous items at Breezehome and is wearing thick men's clothing with worn boots and cotton gloves. Danaë knows for a fact it'll be freezing and she knows for a fact she had looked ridiculous when traveling along the road with only the magic in her veins, a Forsworn bow on her back with a quiver of steel arrows, and a scimitar she had picked up from a dead Alik'r warrior.

She's built quite the reputation of being a brutal warrior, and this scares her a little, because she knows that five months ago, dragon-skinned Danaë wouldn't have learned all these techniques within such a short period.

Danaë is blaming all the dragons she has slain—none have talked at all since Mirmulnir (_that's his name, his memories are bleeding through her mind and is wreaking havoc with its intense clarity_) because, she knows, they have been turned wild. All of their earlier memories had been transferred upon her after their demise, and she's tried running from them before.

Eight lifetimes and eight dragons' worth of knowledge all stuck in her head.

It is enough to drive anyone crazed, especially a High Elf who cannot escape the souls of dragons she slays no matter how far she runs.

But she hasn't gone mad yet, because her mind is strong enough to resist all of those lifetimes for now.

And that is the point of this pilgrimage. She doesn't want to turn mad, so she'll finally bow into her pride and climb the seven thousand steps.

She starts off determinedly, her gloved hands occasionally playing with the fire dancing in her palms. Paranoia has inflicted its curse in her mind, and she has almost a sinuous grace when she aims and burns a frostbite spider simply because it has gotten in her way.

**Troll**

In her five months of traveling, Danaë has never seen a troll and the fear factor is starting to invade her conscience again.

And then she burns it to death, and some clinical part of her assumes that the fat of the troll is a _fantastic_ alchemic reagent.

**Break**

Danaë hasn't permitted herself a break for the past five months. Life has been too beautiful to ignore, but as she rests on the five thousand and something step, huddled in her misery, she allows herself to remember a few things. One, she holds _fire_ in her hands and is able to end her suffering, aka, the bitter cold that plagues all mountain heights. Two, she's on a pilgrimage and is trying to learn something about herself, so she shouldn't exploit her own abilities to make a fire.

And three, there are eight, insistent, soft knockings trying to recapture her attention.

Everything slips through every once in a while. Sometimes it'll be a long forgotten history, other times it'll be a current and quick dissection of fighting techniques the dragons gleaned from Skyrim's present warriors before being slain by her sword and magic. This is the information she's been using to hone her own skills and knowledge of the rebellion going on in the empire.

Danaë doesn't know what she wants to do—stay neutral, or support a faction because of its cause?

Wearily, she shoves the matter aside for another day and stands up again, rubbing her thighs as she did so.

**Meeting**

After she drops off the pack of supplies Klimmek has given her, all the orange-eyed High Elf can think about is: _Climbing down this thrice-damned mountain better be easier than climbing up_. She enters High Hrothgar with a look of absolute weariness and then she meets Arngeir, Borri, Wulfgar, and Einarth, the former the only one who can speak.

**Official Training**

They don't take any breaks, she thinks wryly, looking at the carving now engraved in the stone floor. Something that's happened five months before repeats, and she's inundated with the word _Ro_ rolling over and over in her head. It felt like an hour before it stopped whispering the translation and tracing the claw-like patterns in her head.

The Greybeard in front of Danaë then imparts _his_ knowledge about _Ro_ into her head, and all she can take in with eight other knocks trying to worm their way past her defences, is that it means balance.

Danaë demonstrates her easily-attained knowledge of this three times on an attack dummy-ghost they summon.

It drags on—Borri leads the way silently to their courtyard, a bare and snowy area that has an ominous gate standing in the middle of it with no walls behind.

They teach Danaë the word _wuld_; it only adds to the dizziness and chaos in her head, but she manages to stay upright and nod at their words. As Borri opens the gates and Wulfgar dashes through by only _breathing_ the word, she realizes faintly that they would like her to imitate the action.

"_Wuld_," she breathes, and as her feet are propelled by an unseen force, she lands, _barely_, on her feet at the other side of the gate just before it closes with a bang.

**Fainting Spell**

Danaë struggles to drag her feet over to Arngeir and ask him a couple of questions in her tired voice. He commissions her a quest to find the horn of a Jurgen Windcaller and she begs him to answer a few of her own questions. For one, she inquires _what_ a Dragonborn entails and what happens after he or she defeats a dragon.

In the simplest of answers, most she can only remember as, "As Dragonborn, when you kill a dragon, you consume its lifeforce and knowledge."

Lifeforce and knowledge are two frightening prizes when it comes to millennia-old dragons.

She wets her lips and nervously rubs her back of her hands. "What do you mean by lifeforce?" she asks carefully. If he means their capacity to live age-wise, Danaë thinks she'll be doomed to immortality of a sort. The High Elf knows what he means by knowledge; it's been leaking through her mental defenses for the past three months. For the first two it was subtle, for the last, it had been evident she knew things no one ought to have known.

"A lifeforce is everything the dragon is, Dragonborn. Its history, knowledge—it is a big burden for an ordinary person to bear, but as Dragonborn, you have an immunity to the influx of information."

"I would not receive a dragon's…disability to age slowly, correct?"

Arngeir blinks.

The knockings in her head have turned to harsh beatings, and Danaë is pleading silently for her mind to stay together until Arngeir answers her question.

"To my knowledge, no, but the Dragonborn of earlier times did die natural deaths. Tiber Septim's death, of course, is a long and arduous discussion between whether he could rule longer if not for his throat wound because he was much, much older than any man at the time. Lives were quite short back then… Actually, his age would've been a miracle and something the Nords would consider witchcraft."

"Tiber was Dragonborn," Danaë states in disbelief, a bit of fear coloring her observation. "And he ruled for eighty-one years, and counting his age _before_ he arrived on the throne…" The beating in her head turns into pounding, and she fights against the desire to faint. "Master Arngeir?"

He looks at her curiously.

"If I fall, would you mind catching me?"

_Alduin is Paarthurnax's brother, he's older, he's wiser, he's so commanding and powerful, yes this one will bow to the most powerful and that is Alduin, we follow him, fear reigns, people scream, Paarthurnax _betrays.

A monologue of hissed speech is making its way through her head.

_I wasn't from Skyrim. An army man named Amiel Richton brought me in. I killed _everyone .

She falls, unable to hold back any more voices and memories of long dead dragons, and Arngeir manages to slow her fall. He calls out to the other Greybeards, and when they come and see the unconscious Dragonborn half on the ground while hanging onto his arms, they tilt their heads comically.

"Oh," grumbles Arngeir, "just help me get the girl to Paarthurnax. I am not sure what has caused her fall, just that it is wiser for him to cure it. There are no physical injuries—only mental ones."

* * *

**A/N: **This is to Dark Dreamscape, who is forcing me to publish more chapter stories. The difference is that I'm going to actually finish this one.

I have gleaned everything from the Elder Scrolls Wikia, and funnily enough, they don't have any dialogue for Arngeir, so he is probably at best, OOC. There are going to be no pairings for this fic-I've had enough of Nords for my time, and Danaë has no need to find one right away.

As I said above, Danaë is a name taken from one of Zeus's lovers-Perseus's mother. That does not affect this story as the Greek Gods do not exist, and let us simply assume her father was drawn into the fourth wall.

The first rambling is taken from an unoriginal dragon who was one of Alduin's loyal followers. The second is from a dragon called Nafaalilargus who is taken from a battle in the Second Era. This can be found on a wikia called uesp etc. The battle is titled 'Battle of Stros M'kai' if anyone is curious.

This story will take places in linked drabbles so as to not crash anything as you flip through chapters.

If you have any questions, please leave them as reviews and not PMs. I have that horrible habit of not checking it. Enjoy the story ~AAR


	2. Paarthurnax

Assimilation

Warning: I would like to say again that this is AU, and it differs quite a bit from the game's main storyline and history. I'm saying it now because the uesp wikia happens to tell of stories I don't find until I'm halfway done through the chapter.

Disclaimer: Skyrim, Tamriel, Paarthurnax, etc., belong to Bethesda. I take blame for the convoluted sense of history and screwy dragon names.

**A Life of…**

-0-

"_During this Dragon War, the dragon Paarthurnax took pity on the Nords (purportedly at the request of Kyne), and instructed several in the ways of the Thu'um so that they could channel the power of their own voices using the tongue of the dragons._" ~Elder Scrolls Wikia

-0-

**Family**

Paarthurnax's instincts tell him that Alduin is his older brother and _the_ first dragon to be borne from Akatosh's powers. He resigns himself early on in their life that Alduin also happens to be a great trickster who enjoys playing with his younger brother—the dragon cannot remember how many times Alduin has lured him to a camp of bloodthirsty Spriggans.

Later on when Alduin becomes drunk on his power and arrogance, Paarthurnax blindly follows him out of draconial honor and brotherly concern for the one who used to fight irritated Spriggans with him using ethereal ghosts made of their voice.

"Alduin," he hisses calmly. The lieutenant of the dragon army has replaced the clumsy dragon from long ago, and Paarthurnax stands with poise that can only be gained through centuries of fighting. "The humans are forging weapons strong enough to pierce through even Dwiinahviing's wings."

"Impossible," Alduin snarls, looking over the peak at which Paarthurnax and he held their meetings. A mountain settlement had a cloud of smoke over it, possibly welding these fabled weapons to try and defeat the dragons' dominance over humanity. "_Men do not possess the intelligence_."

The younger dragon stands pensively for a few minutes more, and then curtly bows his head. "If you want to witness the act for yourself, brother, do not let me stop you."

**Terrorism**

There is something _big_ about the humans despite their puny size. It could be their penchant for cunning acts of betrayal or their honeyed, flattering words, but Paarthurnax has always felt a little awed at their inventions to allow them to be lazy. Of course, this invention hurts.

It's an advanced version of their bow and arrow, except this one is larger, stronger, more solidly constructed, and it shoots bolts the width of his smallest claw. And that is not the end of its achievements. It fires faster and more accurately, the tips of the bolts can be removed and replaced, hollow arrowheads can be filled with poison and be released upon impact…

Paarthurnax is lucky that he is not hit by the poisonous arrowheads, but the way he tips slightly to the right is worrying. Balance is necessary to maintain flight—once imbalance is achieved, gliding on updrafts will be the only way to keep his seat in the air. He considers his options—as lieutenant in this sham of a war, it is only a laughing matter if he asks for one of the other dragons to assist him in burning down this village.

He decides to forgo asking any help and lets loose a gushing streak of endless white-hot flames to turn this walled town into ashes.

He manages to ignore all screams of mercy and pleas that a man's children are in that barnhouse he has just slammed down with his tail.

**Self-pity**

The dragon staggers his way up a mountain, the highest mountain in Skyrim—no dragon will think to see a hot-blooded ex-lieutenant there. Except, perhaps, Alduin, but even Alduin is too busy to pay any attention to the whereabouts of his younger sibling.

His thoughts are self-deprecating and his passionate soul, once devoted to burning down towns and enjoying the taste of burnt flesh, is finally paying attention to the screams of not so long ago. Paarthurnax tries not to discern which screams of female, which cries are of children, and which tear-stained faces are men.

It doesn't really work, and all Paarthurnax can think about is that he's a sad excuse for a dragon. Regret is built into emotional souls, namely humans. He's hid any source of regret for centuries, because even conformity is a pressure in dragon culture and showing remorse for terrorizing a village is taboo and mocked at.

As he broods and flies higher, he lands on a flattish plateau where a blank wall sits innocently, waiting to be marks with words from a dragon's claws.

He thinks that he'll tell a story.

No one will read it either way.

**Observance**

This war, this _massacre_ must be stopped. There is always death and the scent of decaying bodies in the air, and although the atmosphere is blessedly clear up top at his peak, he thinks he can still smell it. He really does when he flies down his mountaintop to survey the lands. Leftover bodies of children are sometimes dropped in the rivers, and Paarthurnax witnesses more than a couple of bonfires for the dead to burn.

There are skeletons of dragons as well.

The humans fight an unfair war, Paarthurnax realizes belatedly, because they cannot communicate to the dragons and because nature has molded the dragons to embody pride and dominance. It is not easy for a dragon to give up power, he knows, especially a dragon like Alduin who is drunk with it.

Paarthurnax contains his instincts when he chooses out three humans from a million to teach the Thu'um. Of course he has some help from Kyne in choosing them, but mostly the old dragon considers their nature and their intelligence.

What use is imparting a gift if one uses it incorrectly?

**Teaching**

He wonders sometimes what he was expecting when he grouped the three together and started teaching them. Gormlaith is obviously a misguided Nord Warrior with a good sense of humor, Hakon can throw rocks at perpetrators with the skill of any bowman, and Felldir is a clever, silver-haired man who knows ways to purposely make Paarthurnax laugh.

It's actually easy to teach them how to shout the words.

It's harder to contain the amount of flames that Gormlaith spills out of her mouth. Thankfully, no one else is up here—he's taken to private lessons. There are always some words they struggle with together and some words they struggle alone. Gormlaith's problem had been with _yol_, and in anticipation of an uncontrolled amount of fire, Paarthurnax had brought her up here.

Later, he informs to Hakon not to make any unwanted advances if he wants to keep his beard. True, he's old and he doesn't have much knowledge about human customs, but one has to be a dolt not to notice Gormlaith's anger when Hakon flirts.

Paarthurnax encourages them to ask questions about the Thu'um; it only creates more vocabulary words for them to learn by heart. He doesn't expect anyone asking him anything personal—he is Paarthurnax, ex-lieutenant of Alduin's army of dragons. What more does one have to know of an old dragon who has gone against nature?

**Unwanted Questions**

Of course, it's Felldir who does the unexpected and asks how old Paarthurnax is during his own private lesson.

"Dragons are ageless and immortal—we do not require counting the passages of time in order to tell our age." He avoids the question. He remembers being young and being happy with Alduin for some time.

Maybe it was only a dragon's soul that matured and not the body; Paarthurnax hardly recalls whether he has grown physically at all since his creation, but he has never felt different.

Felldir does not pursue the matter.

He's more tactful than Hakon, at the very least.

**Letting Go**

When they leave the Throat of the World for supplies, Paarthurnax relinquishes his hold over his instincts and manages a silent temper tantrum to let loose all his animal instincts. By the time he finishes, there's a row of jagged, ancient rocks lining his sanctuary and his heart is singing with relief at being _free_.

He reigns it back in just as a panicked Hakon jumps the last couple of steps with a satchel on his back.

"Felldir's gone mad!"

**Acceptance**

After they send Alduin flying through the time, Hakon and Felldir face him in one of his other, secret sanctuaries—Hakon has tear tracks running down his cheeks due to Gormlaith's death.

"I am sorry about Gormlaith," rumbles Paarthurnax awkwardly. He has never offered condolences to a grieving dragon nor has a dov ever given him any when he was lieutenant. Even now he does not feel sorrow for Alduin, because Alduin still lives.

He will just be temporally displaced.

"It was to be expected," Felldir answers, his face more worn the ever. "Arrogance has never been rewarded justly."

"She had a life ahead of her," Hakon whispers, his eyes oblivious to everything but Paarthurnax. "Can you not bring her back to the realm of the living? It's before her time." His voice is pleading, and the old dragon (close to being the last) shifts uncomfortably.

"Powers such as that are not granted without some semblance of godhood."

After this, Hakon's soul crumbles and he goes to survive in Skyrim—he'll offer good friendship and is the first to always raise his glass in Gormlaith's name, but he does not seek out any romance nor kill any more dragons.

He leaves that to the next generation, as does Felldir, who imparts the knowledge of Paarthurnax's residence to those possessing Dragon blood, and from them, a Jurgen Windcaller goes to the Throat of the World and builds a monastery he named High Hrothgar.

**Learning**

Jurgen Windcaller is different. He possesses a kind of calm and tolerance that Paarthurnax envies. He delegates to Jurgen the problems of teaching impudent youngsters who didn't possess the special blood, and soon, Jurgen creates a philosophy that he calls, 'The Way of the Voice.' It is the pacifist's greatest achievement as it dictates that the Thu'um is not just for battle.

In short, it teaches restraint, and Akatosh knows he'll need to have more if more humans come seeking how to use the Thu'um. His draconic instincts have been held back by sheer force for the past decade.

Throwing temper tantrums, even quietly, at his sanctuary would create panic at High Hrothgar.

He gleans that the 'Way of the Voice' requires long hours of meditation and tranquility—Paarthurnax has only one of those.

The world does not require a dragon, so he has long hours to while away either sleeping or meditating, but tranquility…

Tranquility evades his mind like water in a desert. His restraints against his instincts are like iron, but even iron rusts away.

Jurgen looks at Paarthurnax gravely, and the bearded man stands with the kind of poise Paarthurnax used to have. "I can help you with control, master."

"Thank you."

**Meditation**

Windcaller adjusts his method of meditation to fit Paarthurnax. Unsurprisingly, it involves him focusing a single word of the Thu'um and just focusing his attention on that. He has asked Jurgen in a puzzled manner how simply focusing on one thing helps—a clean slate is the true symbol of tranquility, is it not? The bearded man smiles a bit wryly and tells him something extremely convoluted.

"If everyone begins to think one way, the only right way would be to go another way."

"…You are confusing for your kind, Windcaller," Paarthurnax says drily, laying on all fours and balancing his chin on the top of his claws. Every breath he exhales is a burst of steam in Jurgen's face; almost like a deliberate attempt to provoke the man.

He really ought to pull back his instincts. This is a man trying to teach him something. He should at least show the man some respect.

"I've heard it said many times," Jurgen replies almost cheerfully. He sits cross-legged in front of Paarthurnax, his back as stiff as a tree's trunk. "So…which word of your native language would you like to meditate on, master?"

And so the student strives to teach the master, thinks Paarthurnax. He says with great irony lacing his tone, "_Pahlok_. Arrogance." Jurgen looks at him, almost as if he's trying to decipher the old dragon's stony face.

"_Pahlok_," he repeats finally. "Arrogance, the symptoms of youths and the naïve—where justice is not done, it thrives in the minds of higher beings…"

At the end of this session, Paarthurnax states in a much calmer fashion, "This is not how you instruct the Greybeards." (Indeed, they are the Greybeards—so little people come by to learn nowadays, and Jurgen's followers grow old.)

"True," agrees the man. "I teach them to use the Thu'um through lectures and meditations. I lecture them about earlier history that I have gleaned through countless of tales and set them to meditate on 'True Need'." Jurgen cocks his head sideways in an annoyingly endearing fashion. "That is what the _dov_ used to practice, no?"

"…I recall a time where the _dov_ used the Thu'um as a weapon sparingly. It was not until you humans," here he uses the term 'humans' drily, "began to rebel subtly under the Dragon Priests' magic."

Jurgen holds eye contact with him for a full five minutes before the man looks down at his lap. "I was unaware that we were the cause of terror."

"Terrorists never do."

**Calm**

After Jurgen Windcaller dies and leaves his horn somewhere in a ruin, Paarthurnax begins a sort of hibernation. He does not require any sustenance anymore, and the Greybeards function perfectly without his interference._ Perhaps_, he thinks to himself wistfully, _all that Man requires of me is to sleep until Alduin returns through the Time-Rend._

Sleep avoids him, so he resorts to meditation. There are an infinite amount of words in the _dov_ language, and if needed, he will keep himself busy with them until his older brother returns.

**Reappearances**

Alduin returns, and he enters back into the fray with a bang. He burns Helgen, a peaceful little village just at the edge of the border, and then flies off, probably to work out a few kinks and reassert his view about humans. The latter is a faint hope for Paarthurnax.

Sometime later, he is pacing around his small sanctuary—and then he is staggered, because he can_ feel_ a _dov_ other than Alduin. And then the _dov_ is snuffed out and Paarthurnax waits for Alduin to reawaken it right then and there. Mirmulnir was a valuable ally, he remembers, and Alduin would be foolish to miss the opportunity to not have the dragon.

Paarthurnax is surprised when the dragon does not come back. Instead, he hears from the Greybeards a resonating word: _dovahkiin_. It is a summons.

**Waiting**

He is amused at the _dovahkiin_'s refusal to immediately report to High Hrothgar. Not that he blames her; the climb is normally unbearable for even the hardiest of hunters. He keeps a metaphorical ear on this new _dovahkiin_ and her accomplishments, especially when she kills seven more dragons and absorbs their souls.

Paarthurnax has to admit he is confused when the _dovahkiin_ resists visiting High Hrothgar for five months. The dragon knows for a fact that Arngeir is frustrated as well, so he does not consult the Greybeard for information.

Skyrim does seem a little gladder to have the _dovahkiin_ in its borders—they just don't like the fact that she (_she?!_) is a High Elf (_which is probably some kind of inside joke to the Divines_).

He's heard all this from his occasional, secret flights out of his sanctuary.

Experimentation with the Thu'um has allowed him to eavesdrop on villages even when he's far above their heads.

**Surprises**

It's honestly been a while since he's been summoned by the Greybeards. They have gotten so self-sufficient that they do not require any assistance in anything—they even have their supplies delivered by a man living in Ivarstead.

So when Einarth endures the strenuous climb up to his peak (a feat that even that impatient Ulfric Stormcloak could not do), Paarthurnax's curiosity is spiked.

"The Dragonborn is here," says the Greybeard. "She…requires assistance."

"Nothing you can't handle?" He asks this bemusedly—what can a dragon do that a human cannot?

"There are no injuries on her person," Einarth answers dispassionately. "It is, Arngeir suggests, a problem with her mind."

Paarthurnax blinks—no Dragonborn had ever had this kind of problem, but then again, the earlier Dragonborns had ever absorbed the souls of eight dragons within the course of five months.

"I do not promise a miracle," he warns the Greybeard, "but if you insist, it is preferable if you bring her up top instead of me descending." It's a reasonable request. As an ancient dragon, his body is too dense and heavy for High Hrothgar to support of hold.

Not to mention that while the courtyard is in the open, there is a useless iron gate that is occasionally used to practice what the Greybeards call the 'Whirlwind Sprint'.

"Of course." Einarth turns halfway and did a 'come here' motion with his hooded head.

…They don't waste time. A groggy _dovahkiin_ is hanging off of Arngeir's arms and stumbling up the steps.

"_Drem Yol Lok_," mutters the High Elf, "Paarthurnax." Her orange eyes are half-lidded, and she seems to be almost speaking from afar. She staggers over to the old dragon and drops gracelessly into a slumped, cross-legged position reminiscent of Jurgen's own pose when he taught Paarthurnax how to meditate.

The only difference is that she possesses no poise.

He can almost see the phantoms dogging her mind and can _really_ see the Greybeards quietly taking their leave.

"_Drem Yol Lok, dovahkiin_," Paarthurnax replies. "What troubles you?"

Her tone is almost guttural. "I am having trouble keeping myself separate from other dragons," she states plainly. "Ever since the last month, I somehow know things that should be buried somewhere in the depths of a Nord's tomb or that you used to be the lieutenant of Alduin's army." Her eyes widen at the moment, as if she hasn't fully comprehended that piece of information yet.

**Questions**

He probes almost hesitantly when he asks her if she knows their names.

She doesn't—it's almost refreshing hearing her honest tone and blunt answers.

This doesn't stop him from pursing the subject mentally, but Paarthurnax resists prodding the girl for answers she does not possess.

Her state of mind is more worrying at the moment.

"I can't define anything to you except it's like having eight soft knocks against a hollow wall," the _dovahkiin_ huffs in frustration, wringing her gloved hands. "Sometimes things slip through, and sometimes entire blocks of information are just there for me to puzzle at."

Paarthurnax doesn't have to ask what kind of information—information to a dragon could mean anything, from bits of trivia to entire memories. "Are there patterns to the information?"

"There's a dragon with a gold eye appearing more in reflections of water," she mumbles, tenting her fingers and resting her chin on them.

"_Miinseqah_," hisses Paarthurnax, remembering the troublesome, vain dragon with the liquid gold eyes.

Sighing at the task before him, Paarthurnax blinks at the elf who is clutching her head. "Do you think it'll stop?" she asks the dragon before her. Before he can answer, the _dovahkiin_ gives him a glare better used on mischievous children. "The truth, not some honey-coated lie, please."

He chuckles. "_Vahzen_, you ask? There is no history of any _dovahkiin_ falling to _dinok_, death, because of phantasms plaguing their mind, and I have no intention of letting it happen to you under my care."

"…Thank you."

* * *

**A/N**: Congratulations, **Y-ko**, you've figured my grand master plan. (jk) I've actually had people PM me before and I didn't reply for about five days because I was more busy trying to favorite stories and authors.

_Dwiinahviing_ is not a canon dragon. I made him up. Dwiin(steel)ah(hunter)viing(wing).

_Miinseqah_ is not a canon dragon either. However, choosing and throwing the name together using the limited amount of words on the uesp wikia reminded me of Glaedr(sp?) in Paolini's Inheritance Trilogy. Miin(eye)se(of)qah(gold).

_Vahzen_ means truth.

These chapters are going to be titled after the screwy dragon names I'll come up with, so...yep. Eight-nine chapters left. Enjoy. ~AAR


	3. Miinseqah

Assimilation

Note: I'll stop italicizing dovahkiin.

**Miinseqah**

-0-

**Confirmation**

"I'm surprised," says Danaë loosely, "that it's not Mirmulnir's memories trying to break through. He's the first, so shouldn't it be first come, first serve?" They have taken shelter in a cave, and the High Elf leans against Paarthurnax because he emits warmth like a brazier in an inn. A blizzard howls its anger outside of the cave's opening.

Paarthurnax curls in tighter, eyeing the wintery storm outside their shelter. "In a way, they are all trying to break through. It's just that Miinseqah always had a stubborn tendency to _be_ noticed." He scowls at the memory but continues. "Tell me, dovahkiin, how exactly do you think I can help?"

Danaë shrugs. "I don't know," she answers in a plain tone. "But the knockings are softer when I interact with dragons."

"And as the other dov have lost themselves to instinct, you came to the Greybeards in search of a substitute."

She thinks that is an apt explanation, but then she hears the sound of a stick hitting metal, and she falls into a state of unconsciousness. Danaë does not hear the sound of Paarthurnax's surprise.

**Theory**

Paarthurnax is a firm believer that one can hear others even when sleeping or unconscious. It used to happen a lot between him and Alduin—Alduin would whisper questions and observations to his younger brother, and at dawn when Paarthurnax would wake, his mind would be slightly aligned to Alduin's way of thinking.

Of course, being asked the question, "Do you think that dovah liked me?" is not very conducive to holding intelligent conversations, but at least Paarthurnax would have some sort of subconscious idea of what his older sibling was talking about.

"Miinseqah," Paarthurnax says sternly, his eyes still focused on the blizzard. "Stop battering her natural shields. It will do no good to the girl if you flood her mind with your thoughts." He grimaces at the thought of having to deal with half-Miinseqah, half-Danaë. He rumbles in the silent cave, "Do you think that she will retain all of your history, your opinions, your ideas on the _joorre _if you simply empty them all at once in her mind?"

**Gold-Eye**

"The old dovah seems to like talking to you," a voice grumbles. Danaë vaguely recognizes this as Miinseqah, and her assumption is confirmed when she faces the voice's body. A gray-scaled dragon with gold eyes—an exact copy to the one she slayed a couple of weeks prior to reporting to the Greybeards. "Don't gawk, _briinah_. It is impolite."

The knockings in her head has subsided.

Danaë licks her lips and stops gazing at the dragon. "_Krosis_," she mutters. The High Elf scolds herself suddenly and inclines her head. "_Drem Yol Lok_, Miinseqah," the Dragonborn says respectfully.

"_Drem Yol Lok_." The dragon peers over her head, and Danaë resists the urge to follow his gold-eyed stare. His lips uncurl in some semblance of a snarl as he responds to some unseen and unheard voice.

"Problem?"

Miinseqah jerks his head back down to her and eyes her warily. "You know I have been trying to breach your _hadrim_?" He is forced to translate afterwards, "Mind." With curiosity reminiscent of Paarthurnax's, he asks, "Have you not absorbed the entirety of the Thu'um yet?"

"I remember a few words and phrases. Little else remains permanently." Danaë's brow furrows. "I know you're trying to breach my mind and give me advice. My question is if it you will stay as a sentient being inside my mind or just, if you'll pardon the pun, _fly_ through leaving your knowledge and history behind."

"I would hardly know," Miinseqah replies haughtily. "You're the one who has consumed my soul. Who is to say if I will meld with your soul or if I will simply fade away?" His head turns to the side as if he is addressing someone else. "_Niid_, _zeymah_," he snaps. "My turn, Mirmulnir. You had your chance five months before."

"Are they purposely invisible?" asks Denae, feeling lost with the gold-eye dragon turning his head every so often to address his fellow dragons.

Miinseqah somehow smirks at her and doesn't answer the question. "We have agreed I have the first honor of having you completely absorb my soul," he says drily.

Danaë refuses to be provoked into saying something hotheaded and pulls on her High Elf mannerisms to help her deal with this dragon.

Already she misses having Paarthurnax to talk to—the older and grayer dragon prefers having more meaningful and quiet conversations.

"How am I to proceed?" she asks back just as dry.

"Just do not resist," purrs Miinseqah.

She is knocked back mentally at the sheer force of his soul being absorbed within hers.

**Watchful**

Paarthurnax does not stir or recoil from the golden light that glows temporarily behind the unconscious Danaë's eyelids. All he can do is offer what little comfort and warmth while she deals with phantoms he can't communicate with.

Actually…

He can experiment with the Thu'um—he's done it before. Why can't he do it now? Explosions are unlikely with what he'll be trying to do, and the consequences are low enough for the old dovah to disregard danger. He's had centuries of meditation.

"_Hadrim Haalvut Hahnu_," he hisses quietly, tilting his head to make contact with Danaë's marked forehead.

Mind, touch, dream. It's a touching combination of the Thu'um, and it surprises the old dovah that it works the first time.

… He's glad his centuries of meditation are with him, because being thrown into a memory that certainly does not belong to Danaë is staggering.

"_Drem Yol Lok_, Miinseqah," drawls Paarthurnax, finding the hole out of the memory-blanket and reappearing next to the gold-eye dovah. The other dovah are there too, sitting patiently as the dovakiin fully absorbs her first actual soul.

Frankly, seeing the vain dragon jump and swear in Thu'um is more humorous than Mirmulnir's conflicted face on whether to bare his teeth or respectfully bow his head.

**Eon**

Danaë has been through a lot—even hunters living in solitude or veterans from the wars would admit this.

It does not compare to the long, arduous, and routine-stacked life Miinseqah used to have, and it certainly cannot be put against the dragon's experience in the Dragon War.

"_I have recently gotten my scales clean from the _filth_ of Skyrim's swamps, and you wish me to burn down some rebellious house because they haven't _sacrificed_ any food for you lately, Lobriikah_?" asks a seemingly younger Miinseqah.

The more fanciful and shiny-scaled dovah sniffs at him and whips her tail before replying in a melodious voice, "_Miinseqah, let me just say that I don't enjoy showcasing myself to the joorre. It only leads to more shrines being dedicated to my beauty, and from what you told me last time…" _She trails off teasingly and bares her teeth in a non-provoking manner.

"_You have no more need of any more shrines_," Miinseqah snorts, his tail sweeping idly across the plains of where the dragon's territory was.

This is actually less of a gory memory than the next one.

"_Come, humans_!" roars a bloodthirsty Miinseqah, his canines turning almost white in the proximity of the fire that streams out of his mouth. The houses burn, and the dovah's claws bat the house aside as if it is a dry tree. "_Don't hide_—" He stills, listening for something over the guttural bellows of the flames that Danaë cannot hear.

A malicious smile crosses the dovah's face. "_Found you_," he purrs, batting his claws down at a wooden floor. The screams of children and the thought that runs across him mind imprints itself in Danaë's memory: _Mortals—what do they hope for by trying to dig underground for shelter from danger_?

A more recent memory, his revival in particular, passes over next.

**Command**

"Are you giving her choice memories, or is she going through everything simultaneously?" asks a fascinated Paarthurnax. The gold-eyed dovah next to him seems proud at what he's doing.

"Most of the information she will receive from us," the dovah indicates the spectral-like dragons behind him with a careless wing, "is going to be layered in her memory banks. There is little she will keep if we shove it onto her all at once, like you said."

"… Tell me of your theories regarding your being after this process completes itself."

Miinseqah looks at the frozen form of Danaë almost dispassionately. "At worst for myself is to be completely removed from the mortal plane. Because the dovahkiin has consumed my soul, it is theoretically impossible for Alduin to revive me."

Paarthurnax does not hold back his hope. "And at best?"

The gold-eyed dovah shrugs. "At best, our souls remain on the mortal plane, tied to the dovahkiin." A heavy brow lowers, and Miinseqah waves his tail a bit at one of the spectral dragons in greeting.

**Treasure Trove**

Danaë feels like she's in a kind of bind. On one hand, the amount of knowledge and wisdom Miinseqah possesses is beyond any Imperial library despite him not being in existence for the past four eras. On the other, he has an intrinsic connection to nature and shelters, and his dry humor in the memories does wonders to lift Danaë's mood.

The problem she faces is, does she continue absorbing the entire soul, or does she stop and make Miinseqah keep it?

Power's addicting, she remembers grimly, and knowledge is power to her.

The cocoon of magic tightens around her briefly as she tries to throw off the process of absorbing his soul—she takes it that she can't stop it anymore.

**Still There**

When the process of absorbing Miinseqah's soul finishes, Paarthurnax fully expects the dovah to fade away from sight and be replaced with another. It shocks him when Miinseqah remains in place, but at least he's as surprised as the older dovah is.

"Oh, _Akatosh_," groans Danaë, stumbling forward in her released state. Orange eyes dart up to glare at the stunned gold-eyed dovah. "How in Oblivion was that supposed to be a piece of advice?" She doesn't notice Paarthurnax or the slowly thickening spectral figures around the corners of her mind. "'Just do not resist'?"

"It was appropriate at the time," counters Miinseqah, his gold eyes sidling over to Paarthurnax's gray ones in an attempt to plead for help. He shakes his head to regain his focus, and he stares at Danaë. "What do you know, _briinah_?"

Danaë's response is almost like lightning. "That the dov's _heyv_, duty, was to Alduin and that you thought terribly of Paarthurnax for abandoning the dov because Alduin declared himself as worthy as a god."

"I'm almost amused," rumbles Paarthurnax placidly, taking a position of leisure so he can ensure the next seven dovah souls are absorbed properly without any mental injury to Danaë. It's a bit fascinating to see her back stiffen, bow down hurriedly, and greet him in a mechanic tone, but Paarthurnax prefers the easy conversation he held with her before.

"What am I, chopped _raan_?"

Miinseqah is ignored in favor of Paarthurnax ensuring the dovahkiin's lack of injuries. "You are feeling better, then."

"The knocks will probably be diminishing in number when I wake, yes."

"I'm still here," whines the gold-eyed dragon.

"Then stay quiet," hisses Paarthurnax. He turns his head back to Danaë. "If you wish to go through another dovah's soul, speak now."

"I—"

"Just saying," interjects Miinseqah, his mood turning lighthearted, "Beynraanjoor is vying to go next. He's quite sure that he doesn't want to be last."

Paarthurnax's hackles rise. He remembers the dovah clearly, because his brutality when it came to Man was well-known. The brown-scaled dovah had been subjected to the curiosities of mortals, and then had his wings clipped by some cruel child.

When Paarthurnax had sent a dovah to reach the cries of Beynraanjoor, they had all been horrified at the pure atrocity and crime—clipping the wings of a dragon reduced his power and freedom, and the dov were all about those concepts. The dov had all agreed that justice had to be paid, and Alduin had personally gutted the child publically in the middle of a wide, open street for Beynraanjoor.

The dovahkiin notices the elder dragon's odd reaction but keeps quiet as she observes the two dov talking.

**Inner Musings**

Dragon names, Danaë discovers, are either words from the Thu'um strung together, or simply a description of the dovah's personality of physical features. Miinseqah is the very picture of his name, but the first word, _miin_, is almost a lie because of its singularity.

He has two gold eyes, and in the memories she has gotten, they shine brighter than the ingots she'll buy from Eorlund when the dovah planned tricks.

… Paarthunax's name is something she easily translates. _Ambition. Overlord. Cruelty._

A little odd there, but she recognizes that the old dovah was vastly different back then if Miinseqah's memories are to be trusted.

One memory especially has stood out to her in its vividness and clear details. It is one of the gold-eyed dragon's last. He holds one short, terse conversation with Alduin, most of it composed of snapped orders from the latter until the end, where Miinseqah cautiously asks of Paarthurnax.

"_Paarthurnax_?" snarls Alduin. "_He has forsaken us and his instincts to try and teach the mortals the Thu'um. I will not consider him a real zeymah until he proves himself worthy._"

Another memory is of Miinseqah watching a younger Paarthurnax lay waste to a field of grain and straw, his eyes glinting as the elder dragon scorns the mortal family for their poor offering of meat.

Cruelty indeed.

Danaë is snapped out of her reverie at Paarthurnax's reaction to Miinseqah's words.

"I thought there was an order in which I would absorb the souls," she states suspiciously. Danaë doesn't know how to phrase her next sentence, because saying that Miinseqah was her latest dragon is not especially tactful.

**Liar, Liar**

"Of course not. Then there would be one constant knock in your little brain all the time until you absorbed the last soul," replies Miinseqah arrogantly. He preens. "I won first because I had blackmail."

The Dragonborn is quickly feeling the closeness of the walls inside her head when another dragon materializes out of its spectral form.

"He didn't. He just chose to harangue us until he obtained first—the little coward was so scared of seeing a possible fate of dying, he'd prefer to go first," growls this new dragon.

"_Drem Yol Lok_, Beynraanjoor," Paarthurnax greets the brown-scaled dragon tiredly. Danaë takes one look at the dovah before recognizing him as the odd dragon that never stayed in the air for long.

His eyes are a muddy yellow unlike Miinseqah's.

"Paarthurnax," says the dovah in his guttural voice. "Have you been killed by this stick of a dovahkiin as well?"

"I maintain my lifeforce inside my original body," the elder dragon answers coolly. "I am ensuring the dovahkiin does not come to harm while merging with you."

"Is that what the process is called?"

"_Niid_," interrupts Miinseqah, his sarcasm evident. "Paarthurnax is only just growing old and making up words."

**Intolerance**

Staying in Danaë's mind is intolerable, Paarthurnax finds out. For one thing, all of his old soldiers are standing calmly in the light that they have been struck down by a new dovahkiin, and for another, the gold-eyed Miinseqah annoys him.

Seeing Beynranjoor again just makes his life more difficult, and even though the old dovah knows it's morally bad to wish against other beings, Paarthurnax hopes that these dovah will not be returned to their original bodies.

Alduin has raised them for a reason—it cannot just be because his older brother is lonely.

"I will take my leave soon," he informs the dovahkiin with faked disinterest. Her look of exasperation when she stares at Beynraanjoor and Miinseqah is amusing, and her expression of disbelief when he says he will go even more so.

"You'll leave me with them?" she whines plaintively. "But they're just _arguing_."

"They will regain a sense of duty," he says drily.

He doesn't actually believe it, but if he stays anymore to watch his brothers (and possibly sisters, which is just not going to be fun), he'll implode from the restraint on his instincts.

**Minor Problem**

Well, his instincts are raging at him to take control of this entire situation and _shut the two dovah up because they act like joor and not real dovah_ (and that's hypocritical of him) before they continue exchanging snarky banter.

"Are you positive?"

Paarthurnax takes a moment to reflect on this question. "_Vahzen_, dovahkiin? _Niid_."

Truth, Dragonborn?

Not really.

He exits out of her mind with a breath of relief.

**Taking the Reins**

Danaë knows that she's partially suicidal. Sometimes she jumps off of cliffs without knowing if there are rocks in the water, and sometimes she goes up point-blank to fire arrows at giants. Today, she is about to explode with fury at the two dovah who are coming close to blows in _her mind_.

"Beynraanjoor," Miinseqah starts mockingly, "don't you think you should pay attention to where you're stepping? It's not like you can just glide over any obstacles now, can you?"

Direct insult to the dovah's disability to fly or flap his wings to gain altitude. The result? Not pretty.

"You think I will let that go, _zeymah_?" roars Beynraanjoor, flaring his clipped wings in fury. "_Y—_"

"_Praan_!" Shouts Danaë in a wild attempt to stop them. It is an experiment with the Thu'um, and surprisingly, it works.

Well, not in the way she'd have preferred it to.

**Tossed**

Danaë thinks she wakes up.

She really hasn't, and she recognizes that her little experiment has actually backfired. She is not in the cave in which she and Paarthurnax are being sheltered from the blizzard; she's in a cave where a tiny dovah with bloody, clipped wings is mewling with fear.

* * *

**A/N**: Yes, I said I wouldn't italicize dovahkiin. I didn't say I wouldn't italicize anything else. I also have a few apologies and words to my sister, **Avakris**. One, I'm very sorry for filling the story with the Thu'um. It was unintentional at first, and then I started falling into it. Two, I'm also very sorry for the awkward and graceless dovah names, aka, Beynraanjoor and Lobriikah's. Translations of the words will be held below. Three, when Danaë "Shouts", it is meant to be capitalized. And four, my dear, dear Avakris, I consider Paolini's _series_ a _trilogy_ and not a saga. It's not a saga. It will not be considered a saga in my eyes, at the very least.

Translations in order:

_joorre - _mortals. I find that just generalizing it makes it easier on my mind.  
_briinah_ - sister. According to wikis and a little fic I've found on deviantArt, the dragons consider each other brother and sister. Well, except Paarthurnax. Oh, just saying, the terms _briinah_ and _zeymah_ will be used loosely in the sense that the dovah take one another as family in the racial sense, or in Danaë's situation, soul/blood sense. Young Alduin is just there for me to consider him as a naive kid who has to deal with being the first.  
_krosis_ - apologies. Personally, this also seems like a curse in the Thu'um, but I'll take the literal translation.  
_niid_ - no.  
_zeymah_ - brother. Similiar to _briinah_.  
_Lobriikah_ - or, as the order goes, deceive, beauty, pride. One of those female dragons that will feature only as a backstory character. Her soul hasn't been consumed by Danaë yet, by the way.  
_naako_ - eaten.  
_raan - _animal. Miinseqah uses this term because, well, I couldn't find any word for meat, so I just used a synonym.  
_Beynraanjoor_ - literally, scorn, animal, mortal. He's an angry one, and I find that his name becomes more . . . fitting after I made up a little backstory.  
_praan_ - rest. My reason for Danaë using this particular word is because she had thought it will calm him; of course, it really didn't. It just made her fall deeper into her subconscious/start the process of absorbing Beynraanjoor's soul.

If there is any confusion, let me know.


	4. Beynraanjoor

Assimilation

Edit: Made a minor mistake on translating Lokovaaz's name. Correction is below.

-0-

**Beynraanjoor**

-0-

**Bewilderment**

The little dovah is almost pitiful as it cries for help. He is not even half as large as his current size, but little Beynraanjoor is, at least, the size of any human child. His scales are glazed with spilled blood, and Danaë is not surprised the blood of a dovah is the color of the mortals. Beynraanjoor's wings are glistening, though, and the High Elf winces at the sight of discolored flesh and bits of stone clinging to the sticky wound.

"Anyone?" the dovah whimpers in the mortal language. Beynraanjoor has probably gleaned it from mortals. "Why doesn't anyone bother coming?"

Danaë reasons out that the area is not someplace a dovah would normally fly by, but there is something bursting in her heart that also cries out for the little dragon.

Actually, at this time, Beynraanjoor would not have received his name, would he?

It is mortal nature to stay out of accidents, out of trouble—well, except for a few mortals, but Danaë does not include herself in this group because at heart, she is a _coward_.

However, she has used logic for all her actions before, and now she will use it for Beynraanjoor's memory since it _is_ just that—a memory.

**Savior**

Danaë wonders what she's supposed to be learning from Beynraanjoor's soul. Savagery, perhaps, since brutality has overcome most things that cannot be one by diplomacy. Maybe the mortals are right in considering fighting before talking, after all, they—

Is that what she truly thinks of them now? Them, they: mortals. Us, we: immortals.

She has to admit to herself sooner or later that she is now immortal in a sense. Her skin is difficult to penetrate, poison can barely breach her immune system, and just by absorbing even just one dragon soul, Danaë's life has lengthened considerably.

Tiber Septim ruled for eighty-one years after all, and he fought in at least a dozen battles.

How far can she take her life before she dies as well?

"_Who is there_?" growls a new voice. Her head jerks to see an unknown dragon—there are no defining traits on this dragon save for some jagged scar across the dovah's left cheek. The dovah sticks his head in the cave, and blinks almost in surprise at the mewling little dragon. "_… What is your name_?" he asks slowly.

"They . . . they call me monster," the young dovah offers weakly.

Danaë almost wonders who Beynraanjoor means by 'they', and then mentally slaps herself.

Them, they: mortals.

"_Who is this they you speak of_," growls the unknown dovah, "_and why have you not taken your revenge_?"

Beynraanjoor looks at the dovah blankly. "Revenge?"

He tastes the word as if it is new—it probably is.

The dovah seems to restrain himself from continuing his interrogation against a child and shakes his head. He grits out, "_My apologies. My name is Lokovaaz_. _We overheard your cries while ensuring the mountain caves were not used._"

"_Lokovaaz_," repeats Beynraanjoor, squinting at the larger dovah.

What an extraordinary pain tolerance, muses Danaë, watching Beynraanjoor forget his monumental pain in order to communicate with one of his kind. Lokovaaz eyes the young dovah as if he's never seen something like him before—since the dov usually took their revenge before they were that injured, the dovahkiin realizes, he probably hasn't.

Lokovaaz backs out of the cave, nudging the still unnamed Beynraanjoor to stay still. "_Paarthurnax_," he roars as his head reaches open air, "_there is an injured dovah in the caves. A little help is required._" The scaly head bends back down inside to look at the clipped-winged dragon with pensive eyes. "_I cannot promise you'll fly again, little one_," he says somberly.

The younger dovah's awkward question has Lokovaaz almost teetering in his place: "What's it like then, to fly higher than the sky?"

**Intelligence**

It is here when Danaë actually begins to admire a dovah's mind. Despite Beynraanjoor never having encountered another of his kind before, he obviously understands the Thu'um perfectly well—he just cannot speak it. She watches numbly as a resounding Shout echoes throughout the cave and as Paarthurnax somehow switches on his compassion for the wounded little dovah.

"_He refers himself as monster_," Lokovaaz comments to Paarthurnax quietly. "_The joorre have obviously abused one of our kind_."

Beynraanjoor is under some sleep, probably Shout-induced.

**Naming**

Danaë is weary of the very thought of mortals when she returns to Beynraanjoor's memory of getting named. It is not an intimate process, but there is great meaning to which they choose a name.

Or perhaps great irony.

(For an overlord, Paarthurnax seems too _tired_, but she can see his hate for the joorre burning wildly in the memory, so maybe it was appropriate back then.)

Trauma has wreaked its damage in Beynraanjoor's mind, so it is with great bluntness that he chooses his name: Scorn, animal, mortal.

"_You've chosen an odd name, little one_," Alduin notes detachedly. He is cleaning off his claws, which are red and have strings of flesh and hair sticking onto them.

"_I see no pride in taking any other_," Beynraanjoor replies, just as cold. His brutish demeanor makes more sense now, but there is an unrefined source of grace that sometimes shines when he stalks along the ground.

He can't fly, so all the grace that is normally in flight is transferred to his legs, and it makes him have a loping gait that even Miinseqah cannot match.

Speaking of whom...

"_You are correct_; _taking any other name would not suit you_." It is meant as a compliment, but Danaë sees the veiled insult the gold-eyed dovah has hidden.

Either Beynraanjoor does not detect the insult, or he just refuses to acknowledge his disability—

Nevermind.

The vicious tailwhip he has executed is almost hilarious to Danaë; revenge must be sweet.

**On the Road Again**

As the clipped-winged dovah stalks forward, his muddy yellow eyes glitter at the anticipation of dinner. He slithers forward, almost languid in his actions, and then his jaws snap shut around an elk the mortals have left alone.

It is night, after all.

Danaë watches this from afar, wondering where this dovah's memories intend on taking her. The crunches of bone snapping and the whines the mammal makes as it dies is almost sickening.

She knows she's in a memory, but she can't help but snap, "Oh, just eat the elk—it's dead already."

As if in response, the High Elf is thrown from this frankly 'peaceful' little memory and into a fiery one.

**Vengeance is Served Hot**

Beynraanjoor's ceaseless attack on a sleepy village apparently surprises even Alduin. The occasional sprints at night has the dovah starting a fire on a house, and then down, and down, and down. She observes this with an increasingly disinterested eye; a dovah's actions may be disgusting, but they temper it with logic.

Misguided logic, but logic nevertheless.

"_You like the ones with children inside of it_," observes Lokovaaz soberly, wrinkling his nose at the smell of smoke.

That's something she never liked about fire. The ashes left behind are never as pretty or as engrossing as a single ember glowing in the black.

"_There is a matter I do not wish to involve you in_—"

"_I know what your problem is_," snaps the scarred dovah, "_and I know Alduin got your revenge for you. What more do you require_?"

The younger dovah's snarling response is not shocking: "_A personal touch. The joorre do not get one child's death as punishment. They deserve more_." He leaves abruptly, slinking along an enlarged path to the village. Beynraanjoor uses the night's shadows to hide his murky scales, and his eyes close almost halfway to hide the muddy yellow of his irises.

Danaë wonders what she's missed.

**Are you Done?**

"_The village is empty now; the locals are calling it a curse_."

"_How right they are."_

**Recollection**

Danaë finally, literally, wakes up from the process to find herself curled against Paarthurnax's side. She is blanketed by a thick wing, and the elf assumes automatically that the wing was a shield against the wind.

… Strange. She would have thought it as a crude method for warmth before.

"The storm still rages," Paarthurnax's voice echoes darkly in the cave. "Are you done with consuming Beynraanjoor's soul?"

"… I believe so," Danaë answers, shifting her position to lean against the old dovah's side. "The tidbits of information are slowed down, and I have cause to believe that I've fully taken in Miinseqah's soul." It is with great amusement when Paarthurnax snorts at her dry tone. "The _joorre_—"

Paarthurnax has a flexible neck; his head swivels to face her own with a curious look in his eyes. "You are separating yourself from the _joorre_."

She is quiet for a moment. "Yes," she finally answers, "because I've gone too far from even the mer's standards of humanity. I've _changed_."

Perhaps she has if the old dovah is not replying.

"Keep in mind then," he suddenly warns, "that Alduin has changed. That everyone has changed since the Dragon War."

**In-depth**

They have a hundred questions to ask each other while waiting for the sounds in Danaë's head to settle down. She contemplates on why the Dragon War is not displayed much in the memories she has been shown, and he wonders how her mind is continuing to churn out ideas while enduring the strain of eight souls being sifted through in the elf's head.

He has the first chance to start talking. "How do your memory banks look as of now?"

"Like the entire Winterhold library has been expanded to fit all of Tamriel," she replies. "Like every section is being added due for me to have when the information is necessary."

"… And the memories?"

"Surprisingly in the background," Danaë says contentedly. She leans her head against his side to watch the blizzard have its temper tantrum. "They'll surface, I know." A memory obviously surfaces through her mind, because she flinches just a tad and her orange eyes glaze.

"I ask two questions and a memory retakes your focus," sighs Paarthurnax.

**Outrage**

"You have got to be kidding," deadpans Danaë, staring at the library teeming of information. It is still expanding like there is no end to the knowledge Miinseqah and Beynraanjoor have shoved onto her, and she would not be surprised if three-fourths of their soul had been composed of killing and observing the _joorre_ progress throughout the Merethic Era. "What in Tamriel could you possibly have to show me?" she demands.

She might be going crazy. The intake of information could be too much for even her to handle.

Screw it, she had known it would be too much to handle all at once, yet she still absorbed two, didn't she.

"What, you want me to just take one—"

Something slams into her stomach, and she doubles over, instinctively clutching to the thin scroll which contains whatever her subconscious desires her to see.

Danaë thinks she'll regret this later, but she opens the scroll up anyway.

**Anarchy**

"_I feel for him_," Lokovaaz tells Paarthurnax worriedly, staring at the sullen and solitary Beynraanjoor skulk around the sides of the meeting. Alduin has it in his head to hold impromptu meetings at a clearing sometimes, because he feels that something will happen and that he needs to assert his dominance.

This 'something' is the Dragon War.

"_You can hardly expect him to be a dovah with good manners after his unusual upbringing_," Paarthurnax drawls back, making himself comfortable on the stone ground. "_Socializing will not be one of his strong points._" The older dovah looks curiously at his friend. "_When did you start caring for him, by the way_?"

Lokovaaz glares but replies, "_It is, I believe, a sense of duty._"

From Danaë's point of view (which is, thankfully, not in Beynraanjoor's head), she can tell that the dovah had overheard them. It makes sense in a way, if he's devoting his attention to eavesdropping on his elders and not to the gaggle of younger dovahs sparring for the hell of it. It explains why the dovahs voices are less focused on than Beynraanjoor's elders.

Beynraajoor's memory sharpens in sense, and Danaë's eyes catch the nuances in every stone and every scale.

Fascinating.

"_Duty chains us to the ground_," Paarthurnax warns his friend, his eyes flicking and meeting Beynraanjoor's muddy yellow ones, and when Danae hears a phrase crossing her and Beynraanjoor's mind, she allows herself to pay more attention to it.

_I am a hindrance._

It's so pathetically like a young _joor_'s thoughts, that Danaë barks out a spurt of bitter laughter.

What is the point of intimately knowing a dovah's life? There is good logic in remembering every little detail of history and the mostly unchanged geography of Skyrim's lands (of course, most of the resurrected dovahs had been gliding around Skyrim mapping out new towns and the curious fortresses the _joorre_ called Holds), but learning what made the dovah into what they are today?

"_On the contrary,_" counters Lokovaaz, "_it makes you more responsible—something I hear you could use, Paarthurnax_." These last few words are said in a such a bold manner that snaps Danaë out of her reverie and Beynraanjoor from self-pitying himself.

"_Watch your tongue in front of my younger brother, Lokovaaz_," growls a smooth yet raspy voice the dovahkiin is quickly recognizing as a young Alduin's.

Lokovaaz looks at the ground, and Beynraanjoor barely hides his childish impatience. At least Miinseqah loses his tolerance for his dysfunctional family (this surprised Beynraanjoor in the beginning because he knows Alduin and Paarthurnax are the only actual ones related to each other, but apparently each dovah considers each other family or friends) first.

"_What is the need for all of us to meet here_?" demands the gold-eyed dragon.

"_The joorre's rebellion_."

**Indifference**

After this unsurprising statement from Alduin, Danaë is confused as to why she tumbles from this memory straight to the Dragon War.

And why she feels pity for the blonde-haired man grinning as he maneuvers his well-muscled arm to aim a javelin at a pinned Beynraanjoor's eye.

Panic is overflooding the dovah's mind at this point in time, and the Nord is exaggeratedly changed in perspective and image as the grounded dragon remembers someone else: a cruel boy who decided the little dragon should not be a dragon anymore.

Danaë has not seen this memory—she wonders if she ever will.

Her emotional womanly side tells her she'll _never_ ever want to witness and feel a confused young dragon's feelings as his wings are maimed.

Then Lokovaaz flies in with a vicious roar, and the elder dovah crashes into the broad Nord with his teeth going for the man's arms, particularly the one wielding the javelin; Danaë suspects this is because his self-preservation instincts are keeping pace with his paternal impulse to _protect_.

Seeing his old savior has reinvigorated Beynraanjoor's attempts to free himself of the sturdy ropes and pile of rocks covering his maimed wings and body, and his previously halfhearted struggles have energized.

His savior _is _old, and Akatosh be damned if he simply let the old dovah handle the Nord by himself.

**. . . Disbelief**

_This is not happening_.

_**This is not **_**happening**.

Lokovaaz has weakened perilously, and his will to live and pound the _joorre's_ rebellion down is weaker than a dying ember. Reinforcements arrived to help the Nord Lokovaaz was massacring with a grin, and before Beynraanjoor had freed himself of the trap said Nord had laid out before, they had wounded his savior and parental figure.

It is almost hilarious to know he has never acknowledged Lokovaaz had a paternal side he had focused primarily on the angry and grounded dragon.

Danaë is against a wall, and her ghostly form is heaving from the emotional intake. Beynraanjoor's memory is far too acute and sensitive for her to handle as of now. She can't order him to take the blasted memory back or rein back his emotions because _this is the memory_ and even the dov had never figured out how to tamper with their memories.

She's wishing that they did.

This is too much.

"_I forbid you to die_." Beynraanjoor's muddy yellow eyes flash with the anger he has never managed to temper. "_You will not die_."

"_Who says I am dying_?" Lokovaaz jests halfheartedly, stumbling to a halt under a burnt pine tree. It offers little shade beneath its bare branches. "_The dov do not die, little one_."

The flare of childishness indignation at being called 'little one' has never faded either. "_I am not a child anymore_," growls the younger dovah.

"_No_," he agrees almost cheerfully. "_But I am still allowed to consider you one._"

**Down the Gullet**

The next twenty minutes make Danaë reconsider Beynraanjoor. Paarthurnax has obviously never had much experience dealing with the savage and brutal dovah, but he knew of the connection his friend had with the grounded youth—just never how _strong_ it was.

Lokovaaz tells Beynraanjoor it is certainly not the first time a dov has 'died', it's just frankly unexpected because Alduin thinks it wrong. Dying for a dovah is as simple as eating an old crone—it all depends on how you feel.

"_Have you ever felt pushed to the brink of hunger to bones and skin for nourishment_?" asks Lokovaaz serenely, easing himself to lie down on the dry and crumbly dirt.

Beynraanjoor's tone is brisk. "_Of course. Meat was not as fat as today, and I scavenged on my own before that time._"

"_Did you ever want to give up_?"

The younger dovah's slow blink doesn't puzzle Danaë but his answer does.

"_Days came and went. I had no concept of giving up._"

Lokovaaz's wistful reply: "_I'd like to give up now. I feel the tides of this war changing with Paarthurnax defecting from his kin for the joorre, and I have no wish to endure what may happen until then._"

**Cold Sweat**

Danaë wakes with a bit of panic still on her mind. Besides the fact that the dov could die from mortal injuries and simply by losing the will to go on, going through the rest of Beynraanjoor's more than eventful past is mindblowing. She's just a little glad that the stack of memories she had chosen didn't contain his death and resurrection.

"Paarthurnax?" she asks, her eyes wide, still seeing some kind of unknown terror.

"Yes, dovahkiin?"

She fumbles for words and coherent sentences. The blizzard's ending, thank Akatosh (_she wonders if she'll ever use any other of the Divines' names again besides the 'father' of Alduin and Paarthurnax_), and the knocking in her head has subsided into something faded and less attention-seeking.

"I… I believe I will be taking my leave soon."

"If you desire to, I will not stop you." His unusually calm reply has her turning her head at him curiously.

Huh.

He's dozing off.

**Retrace**

The horn of Jurgen Windcaller does not sound particularly exciting to the dovahkiin. Finding it in some draugr-infested ruin less so, and she wonders how long she can put _that_ off. It's certain that she _will_ find it during this year, but Danaë's less interested in fulfilling Fate's desires and fetching crumbling items that could probably have disintegrated into dust—or worst, on one of the draugr running around.

And what if some blasted treasure hunter, like the one back in Bleak Falls Barrow, had already tried going after it?

Even if she is a renowned cold-hearted killer and thief, Danaë dislikes killing innocents behind their backs.

She steps down cautiously another icy step on the seven thousand, and she wonders how in Oblivion she had ever ascended the mountain.

**Report**

She reaches Ivarstead, informs Klimmek that she _has_ delivered the supplies, and then trots down the road to Whiterun—Breezehome must've been unusually quiet and clean-smelling without her alchemy experiments.

(Lydia has gotten used to her odd hobbies. Or, well, she'd better be used to them if she wants to survive in a hunted High Elf's house.)

**Reprieve**

In retrospect, thinking the dovahs in her head would allow her any kind of rest was illogical.

She wonders how all this is supposed to help her later. The dov are giving her their opinions and feelings as well, and she has to admit that even the dov have that irritating _joor_ emotion of indecision.

_Help, fight, help, fight_…

When it comes to her defeating Alduin, will she help him or will she fight him?

* * *

**A/N: **Y-ko, it's a private joke between my sister and I. It doesn't involved Skyrim whatsoever, though.

Not a lot of foreign words besides Lokovaaz's name, which, by the way, means Sky (Lok) Trust (Ov) Mercy (Vaaz).

The story's still going to be mainly focused on the dragon souls' she has consumed prior to her arriving at the Greybeards. Once the last soul is absorbed entirely, the plot will jump to the end of the main storyline in Skyrim and I'll roll a dice to see whether this turns entirely AU or not. I dunno. Enjoy. ~AAR


	5. Malaarzun

**Assimilation**

Notes: I will not be italicizing _joor_ or _joorre_ anymore. I have also adjusted the story behind the Dragon Priests masks for sake of my humor. Keep in mind I do not show every memory that happens. I am screwing with the dragon's color palette. It is within my right to suddenly change the format. Don't worry, it happens like, once.

**Malaarzun**

-0-

**Included**

Danaë curses in some exotic tongue as she trips over a misplaced rock in the market square of Whiterun. It is a dialect created by Alduin and a dovah named Malaarzun; a secret code between master and servant, she suspects. And if anything, Malaarzun's feelings and emotions are that of a loyal servant's. His memories have been trickling through her natural barriers almost reluctantly, and for that, she is grateful.

She is momentarily spared of his zealous compassion for Alduin as well.

_It's night time_, whispers a soft-spoken voice she now recognizes as Malaarzun's. _Should you not be recuperating instead of whatever you are doing_? The dov must be breaking, or at the very least chipping, her mental barriers now that she can hear snatches of their conversation.

What's confusing is that Danaë only hears the dov she has consumed the souls of. She can put a name to how the three dov speak. Miinseqah purrs, Beynraanjoor snarls, and Malaarzun rasps. Mirmulnir barely puts a word in nowadays.

She's liking Beynraanjoor the best, funnily enough. He has a crude manner in how he addresses the other dov and her, but he also has a canny understanding of the joorre's mechanisms.

The grounded dov simplifies exotic machines into a few sentences that even Miinseqah understands, and supposedly, Miinseqah is notorious for being unable to infer which new invention does what.

_I know it's night time_, she snaps mentally. _That's when the Thieves Guild works._

_Should you not be working on retrieving the horn_? asks Miinseqah. _As I understood it, this is a task from the esteemed_, here he stresses the word exaggeratedly, _Greybeards._

_No one recalls whether or not she agreed to do it within the year_, Beynraanjoor's cold rasp echoes in her mind.

_She is working_. Malaarzun's simple yet commanding statement has the both of them quieting down, and Danaë ponders on how much authority the dead dovah had during his lifetime. The only memories she has of his are about his hunting techniques on the joorre, and that at best is artistically gory.

She's still figuring out why the dovah would spend enough time to pierce a body against a sharp tree branch.

Fear?

Terror?

**Blink**

When she buys Honeyside, she finds out she now has more than one housecarl, and to be honest, Iona's cold attitude and indifference towards the Thane annoys her to no end. The redhead is unforgiving as well and takes any slights directed to Honeyside or chicken killings almost personally.

… Danaë really wanted to eat chicken that night, but the woman had seemed set on giving her a cold glare whenever the elf even _glanced_ at the chicken's corpse.

So when she takes Iona with her to a giant camp (she swears that Lydia had been ditching her duties as housecarl in Whiterun to escape encountering the Akatosh-damned behemoths), Danaë does not expect Iona to simply charge into a fight without any thought to her, referring to Iona, safety.

Danaë helps fight, of course.

And then the mammoths come in, and Danaë becomes desperately aware that she is wearing light armor, is attacking with a one-handed Skyforged blade, and her store of magicka is running low because she's healing herself _and_ her housecarl in-between the giant's clumsy yet far-reaching attacks.

Iona dies, and a detached voice in her head (she suspects Beynraanjoor) informs her that she wasn't so useful to Danaë's life so what is the point of mourning her?

The dovahkiin doesn't even have tears at the redhead's untimely (or is it the other way around?) death.

**Nausea**

Danaë's right hand twitches uncharacteristically, and Brynjolf catches it, much to her despair. Thieves are trained to notice every nuance of their target's movements, so she had to have expected his focus.

"You alright there, lass?" he asks concernedly. He's co-master of the Guild right now, because she's off traipsing Skyrim and inspecting draugr-infested ruins for rubies and flawless sapphires. She still reports to him every now and then while performing bedlam and numbers job for Delvin.

There's something poking the outside of her mental barriers insistently, but none of the dov are talking.

She offers Brynjolf a wry smile. "'Tis a womanly thing, Brynjolf. Nothing a few days in Honeyside won't cure."

To be honest, the 'womanly' thing hasn't occurred for a few months now, and since she hasn't had intercourse with any man in the year she has been here, it is honestly worrying her.

Well, not really.

She's never liked the idea of birthing and sex with any of the Altmer in the Summerset Isles. None of them had any attractive features and their attitudes had killed any fondness for them.

Brynjolf blanches at the idea of Danaë being even more ill-tempered and snappish. "I see," he drawls in attempt to mask his temporary fear.

The poking to which Danaë has compared to a metal rod used in ladder rungs now changes into a battering ram.

It's all she can do to stand stiff and upright.

"I will take my leave now."

**Collapse**

She reaches her bed in Honeyside just in time to sink to the floor like the princesses in her old books.

Memories are flooding in—lots of them.

**Black**

When she opens her eyes, she sees a smaller black-scaled dragon crouched in submission to Alduin. Malaarzun's familiar raspy voice comes out of the dovah's mouth, and she finds herself subconsciously leaning in to hear the words exchanged between the two.

Paarthurnax is hanging just at the edge of Malaarzun's focus.

"_I am capable of anything reasonable you ask me_," swears the dovah, his green-yellow irises having a fight of wills with Alduin's.

"_And if I insist on the unreasonable_?" Danaë almost believes his teasing tone, but the glimmer in his eyes reeks of suspicion and a bit of hope that this dovah could fit his requirements for a spy and point-attacker.

Malaarzun is small for a dragon, and his midnight shaded scales blend perfectly with the night and shadows.

He's perfect—he just needs to see if he has the mental capabilities.

"_Time will tell if I can do the unreasonable. I reassure you that I am able to carry out the _reasonable_ tasks you set me perfectly._"

So it is not quite a promise but it isn't denial.

Maybe that's all Alduin will receive.

**Eavesdropper**

Malaarzun appears to take his leave after he concludes his meeting with Alduin—he really doesn't.

He takes Paarthurnax's place and looks in on the two brothers' conversation.

"_I dislike your choices_," Paarthurnax says bluntly.

"_You gave no advice_."

"_Just remember that we depend on you to lead us_."

**First Run**

He's assigned to take control of the joorre's wooden towers, AKA, burn them to the ground and leave two survivors to instill a sense of fear. Specifications do not irritate Malaarzun; if Alduin commands, he will obey.

Danaë observes this event with a calculated eye.

This appears to be the start of the joorre's rebellion.

It takes Malaarzun two minutes to make a strategy to allow two of the joorre escape and the rest die in an inferno.

The screams and taste of smoke in her throat leaves Danaë's stomach heaving for real. Malaarzun's whispered shouts of _yol_ do not ring through the acrid air as other dragons do, but his Shouts are focused into points and not waves.

With _yol_, Danaë can achieve a messily-shaped ring of fire. Malaarzun has perfected it to the point where he can let loose a stream of concentrated white flame.

The two survivors he leaves are maimed terribly—one has lost an arm and the other half of his face and his beard. There are bright red burns disfiguring their fair Nord skin, and it is already starting to putrefy.

They sob with each step they take, and they hobble together.

Malaarzun's observations cause Danaë to listen closely to his thoughts:

_Alduin will be content._

**Lackey**

As the Dragon War looms, Alduin grows paranoid. He forms a secret code with Malaarzun that not even his brother tries deciphering, and Malaarzun is sent on more ambassadorial missions to the arrogant Dragon Priests who contrive to hold more power than possible.

Sometimes he has to kill them so they can be replaced with . . . less power-seeking men.

Honestly, he doesn't feel too bad. Krosis—named after his continuous apologies to the almighty Alduin—is enjoyable to toy with.

"_I admit that the common rabble is beginning to doubt the Almighty Lord Alduin's reign, sir. I am sorry._"

"_See to it that the compulsions are longer, and we may grant you more words of power_," Malaarzun replies tonelessly. As he turns away from the tall and stick-like man, the black-scaled dragon tosses a phrase the man's way. "_Perhaps we may even gift you a mask, new as you are._"

He feels rather than hears the man's shock and hope.

Danaë grimaces at Malaarzun's empty suggestion and fades away from the dovah's memory.

**Bartering**

"_My sincerest apologies, sir, but did you not hint that I may get a mask_?" Krosis timidly inquires, waiting to be killed on the spot by Malaarzun.

The dovahkiin sits on Malaarzun's head—not that he'd know since she's a wraith and all—and she hears the dovah's agreeable hum. Alduin had been pleased with his lackey's progress, and now the dragon was enjoying his time off by toying with Krosis, who still stumbled about begging the apology of any dovah he bumped into.

Any dovah includes Beynraanjoor as well, but the grounded dragon simply utters a wordless snarl at the gawkish Nord to ward him away.

"_Yes, yes_," says Malaarzun absentmindedly. "_Have you anything to offer in return_?"

"_I . . ._" Krosis stumbles around mentally for words. "_I have offered my service to you for all eternity_."

Danaë sees exactly what is happening. Malaarzun is playing for time, because even though he can form a fairly generic enchanted mask for the stick-like Priest, he wants to see how far the man will go for the adornment bestowed only upon the highest ranked of the Priests. `

Krosis has replied that he has given _everything_ to the dragons' cause.

She wonders how this will play out.

"_So you possess nothing_," states the dovah bluntly, examining tar-stained claws. It is partially out of a need for stealth and aesthetic reasons—he looks much more like a harbinger of fear when he is all black.

"_I possess everything I have needed up till now_," Krosis counters desperately. "_What do you require_?"

Malaarzun's contemplation on what he can make this little joor do is endless. Human and animal sacrifices mean nothing to the dovah; perhaps he should just send the pathetic man off to some distant island where he could dwell for the rest of his days, searching frantically for a relic that isn't there…

Something in him shifts, probably due to the cold draft winding its way lazily inside the cavern. He doesn't want to waste anymore time talking to the flesh bag.

"_I suppose I am content_," the smaller-than-average dovah says slyly, "_so I may as well just create one for you right now_."

Krosis's eyes shine like newly fallen snow on the mountaintops.

A gold, almost generic, Dragon Priest mask folds itself into existence from a bed of gold ore Malaarzun had noticed when he first came into Krosis's sparse and pathetic dwelling.

"_Now stop diverting me from my duties_."

Danaë snorts.

**Feather**

When she wakes up from this barrage of memories, Danaë blearily notices that her head is on her pillow, on her bed, under her green blanket, but still dressed in her thief armor. Before she actually regains her lucidity, the elf is somewhat irritated no one has thought to remove her of the belts looping around her torso and the clunky one around her waist.

"Are you up yet?" Sapphire's brusque tone hides her worry. Despite the fact that Danaë managed to intimidate the thief early on in her first visit at Riften, Sapphire has accepted the dovahkiin is now part of the 'family'.

Well, Tonilia calls them a 'family', but the elf prefers to think that they're just a well-functioning dysfunctional team with many connections with each other.

"I don't like belts," Danaë finally states as an answer, staring at a chest loaded with precious ingots. How fortunate she hasn't told Sapphire about where she kept her valuables. She trusted the woman enough (sadly) for her not to snoop around her belongings. "How'd you get inside?"

Her head turns to meet the black-haired Nord's smirking face. Studying the woman's face closely, Danaë figures that the smirk is real.

Sapphire smugly informs her, "You gave Brynjolf a key here, remember?"

_How unprofessional_, comments Malaarzun bluntly.

Danaë's head slams right into her pillow at the reminder Malaarzun's soul is almost entirely consumed, thus allowing him to have more presence in her already crowded head, and Sapphire takes this as an exaggerated but hilarious reaction to her answer about the lucky thief leaving a key with the co-master of the Guild.

She mutters something about cursing the Guild and to her relief, Sapphire pretends not to hear.

"I'll be back doing jobs for Vex and Delvin before night comes," Danaë promises the girl, trusting her to relay her words correctly.

**Day Off**

The showers in the Thieves Guild are unusually pleasant, and when Danaë summons up the courage to accept one of Vex's invitations to a girls' night (AKA, clean yourself, go out, hook up, steal behind people's backs), she finds out a bit more than she'd like to know.

Firstly, Delvin really is a pervert. When she had snagged that piece of paper off the table and read it in the privacy of the countryside, she hadn't actually believed the old-timer had done the deed.

Who in Oblivion would want to go against _Vex_?

Secondly, Sapphire likes perfumes.

And thirdly, apparently even the dovahkiin can be allergic to herbal soaps.

**Mercury**

"Don't touch it."

"If you don't give me a reason why, lass, I don't need to follow your orders."

"If you want to keep your fair Nord skin, I suggest you don't touch toxic substances."

**How to Hook Up**

The Imperial thief that most of the older members of the Guild refer to with affection is quite amorous when pursuing a man in the pub.

Danaë honestly has never expected this out of the stingy blonde.

"Aw, c'mon baby," Vex purrs, her fingers slipping into a bearded man's pockets skillfully and drawing out a few septims in-between the slender digits.

. . . Well, she did expect that.

Gray eyes glare at her and a small, imperceptible jerk of the Imperial's head bids Danaë to start her own pickpocketing.

Granted, she is not as skilled as Vipir, but give her time.

A thick hand pulls her over to a table, and Danaë plasters on a winning smile for Vex's sake. She bends down and holds eye contact with the drunk Redguard, and her hands dip into the man's overly large pockets for septims and precious jewels.

Dressed in civilian clothing, the two of them hit at least twenty men's pockets in the Bee and the Barb at one night. Vex scores more, having experience and a frankly bright, easy smile, but Danaë catches more eyes due to her exotic color and race.

**Unwanted Suggestions**

_You are degrading yourself by staying in this cesspit_, admonishes Malaarzun.

_Does it look like I care_? she snaps back mentally, groaning out loud and flipping over under her green covers.

Honeyside has never looked more comforting.

_I have to agree with the spy_, Miinseqah interrupts almost hesitantly. _You are losing yourself_.

_Relocate temporarily_, suggests Beynraanjoor. _You can take a couple of jobs outside of Riften, surely_.

Danaë's certain that she should be jumping metaphorically in joy for the three dragons that are finally coming together at one point, but then again they are urging her to move away from Riften and irresponsibility.

_Do not force me to persuade you otherwise by pushing the process of you consuming my soul faster than usual_, Malaarzun then says smoothly. She almost shudders inwardly and outwardly at the idea of being forced to handle an overload of information

_Try me_, she dares nevertheless.

**Bluff**

Of course he isn't actually going to force the process to go faster than it should. That endangers his only hope of seeing Alduin outside of this dovahkiin's body, and even though the yellow-skinned elf is sometimes bone-headed, she is intelligent.

**Motherhood**

She falls into one of his oldest memories—being born to a pair of dov who made up the lower half of the dragon population, that is, the less powerful ones.

"_He is a disappointment_," a raspy growl argues with some unseen, blurry figure. Apathetic green eyes from up above his head meet the memory Malaarzun's rapidly clearing eyesight. "_Look how puny he is_."

"_If you expect more out of this one, go off to one of your other mates_," a cold, clearly feminine voice replies.

It is around now Danaë realizes this is her first time observing a memory through the dovah's point of view.

Even at this young age, the dovah were intelligent.

Something warm curls around Malaarzun's body, and heat is emitted almost constantly. An angry stomping of four feet let Danaë to conclude the unnamed male dovah has stormed away. A stream of comforting words flow from this mother's mouth to her newborn child: "_You won't be named yet, little one, but I know you'll be a great warrior one day, even despite your small size_. _You'll be out of this cesspit quicker than me; I will ensure you leave here._"

Strong maternal instincts have won out against self-preservation and disgust.

Danaë feels like applauding the new mother for overcoming her draconic instincts.

**Tether**

She flies through his childhood and lands in a memory where a young and still small Malaarzun is being told that he ought to leave by his biological father.

"_You do not belong here_," states the dovah. The reptilian lips curl into a derisive smirk. "_The weaker cannot co-exist with the weak, and _you_ are the weaker one here._"

Malaarzun's feelings are conflicted. For one thing, he has always despised of his father, and the only thing keeping him here in the valley is his biological mother.

And she is close to giving up life.

He consults her for the last piece of advice she can give her only child.

"_Separate yourself from us as soon as possible_," she tells him hoarsely from her limp position against a carved wall. "_Do not allow yourself to associate with the lower class again_."

**Farewell**

". . . _Goodbye, mother_."

**Tolerance**

Danaë doesn't feel sick about knowing Malaarzun's mother's death. It seems almost like a badly plotted drama to her, and not at all as emotionally charged as Lokovaaz and Beynraanjoor's.

Maybe it is because Beynraanjoor chose to share it all and not in bits and pieces like Malaarzun or because the former does not know how to handle his emotions unlike the latter.

Either way, she thinks she is getting used to the awful strong feelings of a dovah.

Or Malaarzun just didn't care about his family so much that he felt nothing when he cut ties with them.

**Migration**

She bids the Thieves Guild a hearty goodbye and promise to visit monthly for new jobs, and she takes the carriage back to Whiterun, consulting with her now three mentally stabilized dragons in her head for advice on what to do next.

_Solitude has built some interesting fortifications I was unable to observe earlier due to a certain dovahkiin_, hints Malaarzun.

_It is strategically better if she goes to Winterhold next as the peacefulness in the College will help the next four processes continue_.

Danaë really wishes she could glare daggers at the clipped winged dragon, but he's a wraith in her head—albeit, a stabilized wraith that was unable to leave her head, but still.

Miinseqah interjects his own opinion. _Markarth is obviously the best option. She needs a bit of revivement in her adventurous soul. The journey to this place on foot would be invaluable._

_I hate journeying on foot_, growls the elf futilely.

_Suck it up_, he tells her remorselessly.

The dovah become looser in their mannerisms every day with her.

She's starting to like it.

**Dartboard**

In the end, she cracks open a map of Skyrim and throws an elven arrow blindfolded. She suspects that Malaarzun has manipulated her even with the blindfold, because the pointy object goes straight in the middle of the province of Haafingar.

"I hate traveling on foot," she mutters to herself, packing a fresh bag for her probably month long exploration through Haafingar's numerous swamps and forests and mountains.

Lydia is snoring away in her own room, the lucky joor.

_You do realize, dovahkiin, that when we mean traveling on foot, we imply that you will not use the standard roads_, warns Malaarzun almost detachedly. Almost.

She affects a mentality of shock. _Why Malaarzun, are you beginning to care_?

_You are still a briinah, dovahkiin, even if your shell is that of a joor's._

**Trekker**

Danaë sighs a lot now. The spiders loitering around the area are many, and the trivial observations she receives now as a kind of late warning tire her. She shoves her way through a thick brush of yellowed reeds and steps over a puddle of tepid water.

She finds a locked abandoned shack somewhere in the midst of a swamp. She wonders who had lived there and if it is still used.

Later on, when she sobs with relief when she comes upon a farm and a strange, winding road that leads to Solitude, Danaë realizes that if she had really tried, she could have just kicked the door open.

Even an abandoned shack is better than sleeping in a lean-to against the bristly bark of a pine tree.

**Pause**

_Why are there no dragons coming after my blood now_?

Malaarzun: _They are beginning to recognize the sign of a powerful soul_.

Beynraanjoor: _The dov are waiting for the most opportune strike._

Miinseqah: _You're so scary, you ward away every dovah within your sight. That, or Paarthurnax has sent out a subtle call for them to fear you_.

**Tactless**

"Sons of Akatosh," she spits out in rage, her left hand thrusting forward to assault the new band of spiders with purple and white sparks of electricity.

_All you women react the same way, don't you_, notes Miinseqah almost wryly.

_Miinseqah._ Beynraanjoor.

_What_?

_Where is your tact_?

**Caution: Incoming**

Miinseqah offers only a curt sentence to warn her of the next dovah wanting to gift her with _her_ knowledge and logical reasons on why she shouldn't side against Alduin: _She is not an opponent to underestimate._

Figures.

The elf glares at the wooden ceiling above her rented room in the Winking Skeever, and throws a cotton-garbed arm over her eyes in exasperation. _Not even a name—_

She's knocked out and in her mind-library of useless and useful information quicker than a Bosmer's arrow in flight.

Danaë sees her library continue to expand and change; the shelves are now different shades of color.

_Not funny_, she growls at herself. She refuses to entertain the thought of _where_ the dov are lurking.

Miinseqah's soul is sectioned off into bookshelves of gold, Beynraanjoor's a plain wood, and Malaarzun's a dusky black.

It isn't ebony.

Her mind is odder than her soul.

White bookcases bursts into existence, and Danaë is physically pulled into an aisle between the rapidly filling storages. With a critical orange gaze, the elf notes that these ivory cases are engraved with graceful, fiery designs that denote that this dovah is a female.

She doesn't know if that's a good thing or not; did dragons have that time of month?

The dovahkiin can't answer her own questions before her left arm brushes against a book; her sight grows black then colorful with clarity as she witnesses this dovah's first memory.

* * *

**A/N**: So now we have a female dragon, whose name I am sure I have screwed up. If you have anymore suggestions for dragon names, I am no averse to taking them. I asked **Avakris** if she wanted to do one, but she claimed it was too hard. Anyway.

Brief Translations (forgive me if I miss any):

_zeymah_ is the equivalent to sister, and Malaarzun translates, quite literally, into little (Mal) servant (aar) weapon (zun).

Enjoy. ~AAR


	6. Sotlunvith

**Assimilation**

Note: More dialogue-based and conversation. Focuses more on interaction and the plot line at least. I also forgot that you absorb the soul of Sahlokinir. Goddamn it.

**Sotlunvith**

-0-

**Stab**

Sometime in those five months she escaped her duties as dovahkiin, Danaë slays a white-scaled dragon with gray-green eyes. It is a particularly grueling fight between the both of them, and the elf finds herself cursing the Divine who let the dragons wield frost through their mouths.

They're _dragons_ for crying out loud. What on earth were they doing with ice?

The blows they exchange are devastating to the landscape and the dragon's wings and snout. Too close had the white reptile's gleaming fangs come to maiming her arms, and after she kills the frankly terrifying _animal_ and feels the now familiar warmth flooding her soul, Danaë wonders.

Is there another knock in my brain that's more insistent than all the others?

**Last Minute **

Her energy has been sapped away. Danaë doesn't know whether to be impressed by the damn white lizard's power or be frustrated.

Not even absorbing the dragon's soul allows her to regain her vitality.

She retires at an inn in Whiterun, and Saadia (can't really think of her as anyone else) notices how pale the elf is.

Danaë gets her room at half-price that night.

**Back to the Present**

"You're kidding," the High Elf deadpans. She makes herself comfortable on a dream-formed-boulder as the white dragon from before crouches in front of her. "I thought it was a memory you were going to show me."

"I thought you'd like a briinah to_ briinah_ chat, as you joorre call it," says the dovah dismissively in a husky low voice.

The dovahkiin tries hard to decide if she is offended by the 'joorre' comment.

"I believe that I cannot be classified as a joor anymore," she finally answers.

Okay, so she is a tad irritated.

The dovah continues, apparently uncaring of her 'sister's' reply. "My name is Sotlunvith," she introduces herself. A quick translation renders Danaë's posture stiff. How disturbingly appropriate and literal—Sotlunvith means white, leech, serpent in the dovah tongue.

"Drem Yol Lok, Sotlunvith."

The name itself is graceless.

"Drem Yol Lok_, _dovahkiin." A blink of the dovah's eyes makes Danaë tense even more. Her spine grows stiff with the instinct to stand (or in this case, sit) straight. "Would you like to begin the process of merging now or subconsciously as you travel around on foot?"

The High Elf has no wish to see what makes this dovah tick.

"Do I have a choice?"

"Isn't there always? There was a choice to join Alduin and his traitor brother, Paarthurnax, and we could have defied out instincts to ally with the higher power. You of all the joorre ought to know, dovahkiin, since you seem to side with the underdogs."

Danaë jumps at the chance for a new subject. She remembers Miinseqah's warning quite clearly.

"You honestly consider Paarthurnax that terrible?"

The dovah's entire demeanor shifts into that of a white-scaled murderess that reminds Danaë that this particular dragon is a silver-tongued speaker and a killer. "Alduin stood up for what he knew. He reasoned his madness. Paarthurnax's whim to help the joorre was not calculated or logical. It was borne of compassion and pity," she spits out.

She stops, looks away, and bares her teeth at some invisible wraith. "She has yet to merge with my soul entirely, Miinseqah. There isn't any need to act worried for your precious dovahkiin." Gone is the caring sisterly persona Dane has sorely lacked in her High Elf upbringing.

Altmer families required only one child to continue the family line. Any more offspring and one risked a potential interfamily fight for the Head. Some families did produce more than one child and tried breaking out of the stereotype, but then some kind of assassination would happen and harden the other child to reality.

Thus, the elf is the only heir of her family and a lonely orphan that has grown up.

**Inglorious**

"Akatosh be _damned_," swears Danaë angrily as she recoils from the cold wood of the floor. The Winking Skeever does not do much for internal heating, and the fireplace below offers no comfort for the rooms up top.

She's rolled off her bed.

Never again is the elf going to be sleeping on top of the covers.

**There Be No Dragons**

_My memories will not be handed down to you as Malaarzun's, Beynraanjoor's, and Miinseqah's were_, Sotlunvith informs her lazily as Danaë skirts past pressure-plated traps in Ustengrav. _That's a little crude for my tastes._

Danaë regrets having the unfortunate luck of consuming dragon souls; she doesn't even have a choice. It's partially why she runs from any dragons now—any more dragon entities in her head would most likely render her insane.

If she isn't already. The joorre's greed for money and property begin to irritate her even more than the old dov's lust for dominance.

_Briinah_? queries the only (possibly) female dovah in her mind.

_I'm fine. _A suspicion crosses her mind. _Where are the others_?

_Keeping their respectful distance._

This is a little impossible to consider knowing Miinseqah's need to interrupt conversations.

**Absent**

"You're kidding me," deadpans Danaë, staring at the note replacing the supposed Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. She plucks it off the iron thing and opens it blankly.

Somewhere in her head, she can hear the echoes of a snort, a raspy chuckle, and a snicker.

_You are incompetent at your occupation_, Sotlunvith observes.

The elf is glad for their solitary surroundings. Now she doesn't have to think her replies back.

"You're incompetent at being a silver-tongued dovah."

She really ought to watch herself. Danaë has no idea what kind of access the Frost Dragon has to her mind.

_Head to Riverwood_, sighs the dovah.

Almost like an older sister nagging the younger.

**Advice**

The High Elf wishes, just a little, that the road to Riverwood was shorter and her legs were built for long distances. The road from the middle of nowhere to the almost middle of nowhere is absurdly lengthy and twisted. She ignores the goat only five paces ahead to pay more attention to the giant camp that's coming up (according to her gut and Malaarzun's earlier scouting of the new Skyrim he had been revived in).

Her slender form dressed in the standard Thieves' Guild outfit blends in perfectly with the drab landscape.

She does prefer it to Summerset Isles's tropical and humid weather, though.

(Skyrim is like every climate collected into one small, mountainous terrain.)

_If I may offer you some advice_, begins Sotlunvith drily in her head. Danaë can see the white-scaled dragon's eyelids snick over gray-green irises in exasperation.

_Go ahead_.

Danaë humors the dovah only if because she still fears her.

_Why have you not invested in a horse?_

Ah. The stocky animals that the joorre bought because they were too lazy to walk. She recalls the last time she used a horse—a month ago—and shudders ever so slightly.

_It was_, she chooses her words carefully, _fairly unreliable._

_Have you ever considered the fact that you were not suited for such a stupid mammal_?

_After it died, yes._

_Then perhaps you should invest your life in something more useful to further your own goals._

_Something, my dear sister, or some_one?

**Worthless Investment**

"I've seen you somewhere before, once," says Danaë automatically when she enters Riverwood's inn. The smell of freshly baked loaves of bread makes her stomach rumble. Low metabolism she may have, but even a High Elf cannot suffice on greens and water for so long without wanting for more. Delphine, the owner of the inn, simply cocks her head at her and asks what she wants.

_She's ignoring your statement. I've seen better liars._ Sotlunvith dismisses the apparently bad liar and thief immediately.

"What do you need?"

"I'll pay ten septims for the attic room."

"… I'm very sorry, we don't have an attic room. Take the room on the left."

**Return**

Delphine returns to Danaë the precious Horn of Jurgen Windcaller and then leads her down into a secret basement. The dovahkiin wants to know how the joor has moved everything inside, including that lovely enchanting table, but then she notices a piece of paper marked with little symbols.

She circles round the table and looks at it with a practiced eye. Dragon burial sites.

_My brothers and sisters were buried at such menial sites. What were those zealous idiots thinking_?

**Proof of Existence**

"I need evidence that you really are the Dragonborn. Not just your word, elf."

She ignores the old joor's derogatory tone.

"I could just run off and abandon you to your quest," Danaë blandly replies. "But I need to kill time, so tell me how I can please your majesty."

Delphine's eyes are wide with shock and disapproval. "You would…" she splutters. "What kind of hero are you?"

_Evidently not a good one, but that is fine._

_Shut up, please. I'm trying to work._

_No, really. Sometimes heroes are bad ones and they still win at the end of the day._

_Hideous trick of fate, then?_

_Absolutely terrible._

"Just tell me what you want me to do," sighs Danaë.

**Another Run?**

Sometimes, Danaë forgets how easy it is to travel Skyrim through the roads. She jogs and walks with Delphine for about two hours and talks with her on the way, holding a conversation with Sotlunvith as she does so.

"So, Kynesgrove… What is it besides a town?" the slender elf asks, pacing her long strides so that the short Breton can keep up with her.

"I don't know which dragon is buried there, but the town itself is infamous for its ale. The Sleeping Giant's is better, though."

_Don't take her word for it; she is puffing up with pride. See her feathers? They ruffle indignantly when she encounters any slights. Your silence is one._

_It's reputed Alduin's pride was worse._

_Is, dear sister. Is worse. But it is more bearable._

**Passerby**

"Should we not—"

Two Alik'r confront a Redguard woman with their swords drawn. It is close to twilight, and the night shadows everyone's faces. Danaë pities the two—she's done that particular job for Saadia months ago, killing the mercenaries hired to capture her. Briefly, she wonders why they haven't received the knowledge that Kematu is dead.

Her hand wanders to her right side where a scimitar used to dangle in place of a glass sword.

"Ignore them. They will not harm the woman."

_Your conscience is annoying. Stop it._

_They are _interrogating_ her._

_And you believe you will help? Tell me how._

Danaë bites the inside of her cheek and presses on gravely, her spine stiff with indignation and anger.

**Pulled Out of Action**

She climbs her way up to the peak before Delphine reacts to the frightened girl's screams of help. Her second sight of Alduin is breathtaking now that he isn't doing much of anything besides watching a dragon burial site with grave, iridescent eyes. His wings flap silently, like Malaarzun's in his memories.

_Watch_, murmurs Sotlunvith, sounding as if she is entranced by the sight.

"Sahloknir, ever-bound dragon spirit!" roars Alduin suddenly. She staggers back and sees Delphine approach the entire fiasco with wary eyes. The Breton is clearly cautious about Danaë being so close to the most notorious dragon in Tamriel.

_I understand him._

_Do not waste the opportunity, then_, chides the frost dragon.

"Slen tiid vo!" _Flesh against time._

Bones rise, flesh grows, skin covers, and scales stack against one another—Sahloknir reincarnates.

_Zeymah_. The dovahkiin and dovah's thoughts are in sync now.

Alduin's head swivels to face Danaë's, and his eyes meet hers. "So, little dovahkiin, how are you finding Skyrim?" He doesn't let her answer and bares his jagged teeth at her. "You do not even know the tongue of the dovah, do you? What arrogance coming from one who has taken the name of dovah."

_I want to murder him._

_Stand down_, snaps Sotlunvith.

"Sahloknir," hisses Alduin, "kill these joorre."

**Cornered**

The instant Alduin flies away, Danaë instinctively dives to the left, drags Delphine to the ground, and sets up a lesser ward to shield the both of them from Sahloknir's frost attack. "Sahloknir!" barks Danaë in her best 'Paarthurnax-commander' voice. "Stand down!" She echoes Sotlunvith's earlier order.

Of course, he doesn't stop.

Sometimes she thinks that they will never stop.

"Just kill it if you're the damn Dragonborn!" shrieks Delphine, who is strategically stabbing the dragon's underbelly and wings. The newly-reformed membrane is easy to slice through. Danaë's movements stop—she wonders what Beynraanjoor feels for the Breton right now, for disabling a brother's ability to fly. He is mercifully still silent, however, as Sotlunvith has apparently monopolized her mind for herself.

_And now is the time to ask yourself, dovahkiin,_ whispers Sotlunvith suddenly, _if you truly kill the dov due to expectations of the people or for self-preservation._

Sahloknir lands with a great frown of annoyance on his face and he breaths frost and fire everywhere.

Then he lurches his way forward, his jaws snapping open and attempting to enclose Danaë's head inside.

She shoves her glass sword down his throat, that instinctual jerk subjecting her mind to another soul.

**Slap**

When they return back to Riverwood, Danaë's close to tears and anger towards the Breton. Sotlunvith is quiet inside her head, maybe asking about Sahloknir's new state of being. She wouldn't blame the dovah if he is angry—one moment dead, the next alive, and then trapped inside an elf's soul. Danaë talks to Delphine, cold and abrupt, and then she is told to report to Solitude as soon as she can.

If she has her way, it won't be for a little while. The party at the Thalmor Embassy does not clear her frankly disorganized schedule completely as it still needs a bit of preparations to make.

She still has to give back that Horn of Jurgen Windcaller after all.

_You are forgetting something, briinah_, drawls Sotlunvith suddenly. Sahloknir is not heard at all.

_Ah._

"What faction are you a part of?"

"The Blades."

"And your purpose?"

"You have somewhere you need to be right now. You can ask questions later when this is all over."

The condescension in Delphine's voice propels Danaë to show some feral dovah rage in her eyes and forget her manners.

"I haven't been a child for some time now, so don't expect me to bow to your every wish, joor."

**Unearth**

Sotlunvith has unearthed her hidden mannerly and prim side from her memories. Danaë is unsure whether to be grateful or horrified that she still knows how to flatter and raise an Altmer's ego. Eight months in Skyrim where racial slurs are practically tossed about as septims from a rich man and one would think her proper side would have been rubbed off.

"Elenwen, my name is Dany of the Nightshade House."

There. An appropriately similar name (_her father actually called her that a few times, and the servants had picked up on it disturbingly well_) that wouldn't have her jolting in shock and an even lower House in the Altmer hierarchy that is infamous for its virile and child-bearing elves. Not to mention the stylistic tattoos on her brow and eyes are similar to the Nightshade House's markings, and Elenwen, in her perceived glory, would never tell the difference.

"Ah, yes, I recall you being in the list… How are your fields?"

"Prospering and feeding my family's coffers, Lady Elenwen."

"I'm glad to hear—"

"Lady Elenwen?"

_I can smell the Bosmer from your _mind, snarls Sotlunvith. Her mood has turned for the worse. What's even more terrible than that is the fact that Danaë's nose _is _actually detecting the nuances in the thick, partying atmosphere, and Malborn is smelling a lot like mulled mead and dirt.

And a liar.

"The Alto wine is running out…"

"Then replace it, idiot!"

Dany (_Dany, Danaë, Dovahkiin, Dragonborn_) takes her leave very gracefully, and there's even a slight swish of her skirt that reminds her of her youth in long robes and dresses.

**Bit of Banter?**

The man's subtle hints for a free drink makes Danaë sigh in exasperation. Already she's encountered all the snobby rich people in the room, and her Guild's benefactor, Maven Black-briar, is here as well.

However, Maven automatically (albeit quietly) chides her for her terrible disguise, but at least the woman compliments Danaë's graceful figure and how easily she moves around the room socializing.

"Why, if I didn't actually know you as one of them, I might think you were a part of the Court," remarks Maven, who leans her elbows against her knees, staring at Danaë's face as if she is a puzzle.

It makes her feel slightly uncomfortable.

"I was raised to be someone a little higher than my real status," Danaë replies demurely. "Circumstances have closed that particular path to me."

"Your family mustn't have had a lot of money in their pocket, then."

_This joor grates on my nerves_, growls a familiar-new voice.

_Come out of hiding, Sahloknir_? questions Danaë almost smugly. Aloud, she excuses herself, confers with Malborn, slips a drink to Razelan, and then exits the now scandalous party.

_Do not test me, sister._

_I would never dream of it._

**Clean Record**

Danaë _knows_ places and restrictions are never fool-proof. Of course, it may be her experience as a lucky thief who possesses more lockpicks than she ought to considering she has the Skeleton Key, but she has never known any place or system to be completely free of any discrepancies.

So when she absentmindedly hears that a Khajiit is hoarding Moon Sugar in the Thalmor Embassy, she is not exactly sneering at how flawed Elenwen's choices are, considering the food (and her guests, who are obviously not very happy to be there).

Back in the old Era, Alduin would have never even tolerated any kind of addictive substance take hold of his army.

Killing the joorre isn't an addictive substance.

It's a habit.

**Just Another Interlude**

"The girl is not very bright," growls Sahloknir with contempt. He is curled up in this blank, empty cavern that only expands with every dragon soul consumed. It hasn't expanded since he's arrived here.

(There's a meadow and a hunting ground outside which also expands with every dovah, but in here is a sanctuary that they cannot find in peace.

Can anyone really blame a soldier who's been thrown from death and life and limbo like a ball tossed between children?)

Miinseqah is across from him, and the gold-eyed glare he receives from the younger dovah barely concerns the new wraith. "She is wiser than the average joor," he spits back.

"Wiser or not, she is not bright. She trusts too much."

"Emotion is more or less expected from the dovahkiin," remarks Beynraanjoor dryly, scratching characters into the ground with an increasing boredom. There is only so much one can do in a mind like this. Experimenting with the Thu'um is an increasingly attractive solution to this boredom, however. "The world would be disappointed in her if she was lesser in her soul than them."

The gold-eyed dragon peers at the characters, deciphering them into a general translation.

Incredulously, he queries, "Are you really writing a story about Alduin?"

Sahloknir's curiosity is peaked.

"It's not much of an argument to persuade this dovahkiin not to kill Alduin," he muses, adding a few more marks to the ground absentmindedly, "but assuming that this is the basis of her mind, perhaps this will sway our sister into not becoming another Paarthurnax."

"It seems unethical to simply implant the idea that Alduin is trustworthy..."

"'Unethical'?" echoes Sahloknir. "Have you been infected with morality by this sham of a dovah?"

Malaarzun finally interrupts this growing argument.

"Cause any more chaos in this mind and we may be locked away in her subconscious's defensive mechanisms," snaps Malaarzun. "And no matter her physical shell, she is a sister in blood."

He doesn't feel like he has to remind anyone of that.

"We're irritable. We need something to do—"

"Then fiddle with the Thu'um and figure out if we can change forms. Maybe if you have a joor's body you can entertain yourself like that."

**Slipping**

It's on the wagon going back to Riverwood after finishing that Thalmor job Danaë is struck by one of Sotlunvith's memories.

_Akatosh-damned dovah_, she curses fervently in her head.

**Carefree**

A young Sotlunvith romps with another young dovah without a care in the world. Her wings are still unscarred, but prominent purple veins bleed through the thin membrane. Croaky laughs slip through bared teeth, and heavy tails occasionally smack against each other clumsily.

Is she learning to fight, or to play?

Maybe both.

Why is she even contemplating this?

Wraith-Danaë shakes her head at her stupidity. Considering the drama that has been in the three other dov's lives, she ought to be grateful for this and taking advantage of the fact—

**Knock on Wood**

In retrospect, she really shouldn't have taken the nice memory for granted.

This particular memory is… brutal.

**Overrun**

Sotlunvith raged, her white scales tinted purple with her frost dragon blood as the warriors' weapons pierced through the deceiving armor. Saliva solidified in her mouth to form splinters of frost, and it took down at least ten of the joorre.

But for every ten, there were twenty more.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered: _What did I do wrong? How did I get separated and then ambushed?_

_Am I slipping_?

Laboriously, she roared _fus ro dah_ and inched her way up to salvation (_to freedom from hurt, to the sky_), blindly seeking for a balm for her injuries. Using her inner compass, she turned west and headed for a refuge everyone seemed to—

Something pierced through her wings.

_Something has pierced through her wings._

Akatosh. She hadn't really given any thought about being a grounded dragon like Beynraanjoor, nor had she ever considered his frankly unique situation.

_Calm down. Just a flesh wound. Nothing as bad as Beynraanjoor's_ _disability_.

She fell from her pedestal in the sky and landed on the ground with a loud thump, her joints stiff with acute pain and her mind temporarily dazed at the sudden impact. And then came the wild attacks on the weak points of a dovah's body. Sotlunvith's topaz eyes closed. Nothing had prepared her for this. Alduin's talks and experiences had never been so bad.

She must have angered Akatosh or Kyne.

Nature hasn't hated her so bad ever since the Accident.

"She's down, boys! Stab 'er in the 'ead before she gets back up again!"

Two balanced feet steadied themselves on her head, one foot pressing hard against a curved horn for stability. Most likely a boy. Wielding a rusty knife if her olfactory senses were working. He was also unwashed.

Conclusion: The unhygienic boy was prying away white scales with his nimble fingers to stab—

Black.

**Fish Out Of the Water**

The wagon-driver's rough shaking wakes Danaë up from her induced slumber. She automatically flinches away from the joor, her mind still wildly trying to reassemble her identity without inserting memories that aren't hers and little quirks that made her _her_ and not just a High Elf with the blood of the dov. Her mouth opens and closes, sucking in air that isn't filled with the sounds of pained dragons or dying joorre.

"You alright, elf?"

She takes a deep breath and shoves away the thought that her lungs are being stabbed by the frigid air.

Damn wintery Skyrim.

"I am fine, joor," she lets loose the word accidentally, and her eyes are wide open at her mistake.

She's fortunate the man is too preoccupied at ensuring his wagon is still clean and loaded with trade goods to notice her odd terms.

Climbing out of the wagon, she starts the arduous journey back up High Hrothgar—but this time, there aren't any knocks in the back of her head.

This time, there are eight dov trying to sway her from her ideals and opinions and course in life. All for a good cause, of course.

**Five-thousand and seventy-two**

_I apologize for releasing my hold over my memories_, says Sotlunvith hesitantly. _You did not need to observe any of those—_

_She doesn't have any right to see any of our memories_, grumbles Sahloknir.

_Well, you're never getting back to up to life again like us, so maybe she does_, Miinseqah snaps.

Danaë clutches her head with gloved fingers, her eyes wide with all these conflicting voices. She staggers her way to the side of the mountain (doesn't seem like it'll end at this rate) and is glad for the solitude. She's fairly certain more than a couple of Nords would label her as a lunatic, like that poor fellow skulking around Solitude's streets.

"I thought you were keeping them quiet!" Danaë accuses Sotlunvith.

No matter about the memories.

… Huh. She _is_ getting a little immune to a dovah's emotional turmoil.

_Is it my fault if they refuse to shut up_?

"Yes!"

_Is it still my fault if my powers do not work anymore due to _you_ absorbing my power_?

"What?"

_Oh, yes, Sotlunvith, _Sahloknir growls, _tell the little dovahkiin what new powers she can wield now._

Orange eyes narrow at a blur of snow. "You know what?" Danaë decides with a set jaw, "Screw this. I'm just going to deliver the damned Horn and go on my way back to Riften—"

_Riverwood_, Malaarzun reminds her in a steely voice. _Assuming you go to Riverwood first and report your findings from the Thalmor Embassy, you can kill two birds with one stone. _She can picture his head tilting in an innocent fashion. _Would it not be wiser to do so_?

_How time consuming_, Beynraanjoor observes.

_Yeah, well, I apparently have all the damn time in the world_, snaps Danaë.

**Deafening Introductions**

When the Greybeards officially acknowledge her as the Dragonborn, Danaë doesn't stumble around as she finally, finally hears the other Greybeards speak aloud. Of course their voices are deafening, but nothing really _is_ deafening when she compares it to the now daily arguments in her head.

Even now they won't shut up.

_Yes, yes, very impressive, _says Miinseqah distractedly, apparently scraping something on a hard surface.

_Haven't you obviously proved yourself to be the dovahkiin already_? queries Beynraanjoor.

_It's just a tradition, I guess._

**New Shout**

So they teach her the 'Clear Skies' Shout, albeit a little reluctantly knowing her purpose, but at least she reassures them she means no harm.

She's met Paarthurnax before, and she likes the old dovah, no matter what the dov in her head say.

"_Lok vah koor_!" Shouts Danaë, and she starts up the lonely path that Einarth took about three months ago. Ice wraiths litter the area like flies, but there is the occasional goat.

_Eat it. _She has no idea who is suggesting this. It's a cross between a snarl and a purr.

_It's raw and can potentially give me food poisoning._

_Eat it. _She can't even identify the dov apart anymore.

Oh, draconic instincts.

**Oh, Hello Again**

"Drem Yol Lok (_traitor, falsifier, fallen brother, brother_) Paarthurnax."

"Dovahkiin, I see you've managed to steady your mind."

_He was always stiff at greeting friends_, muses Sahloknir smugly. _Not very charismatic, is he._

"I'm not the complete master of my mind."

**Alternate Reason**

"You're a good source of conversation, dovahkiin," Paarthurnax admits. "Your opinions on certain subjects are also unusually well-reasoned."

**Worth Saving**

"Perhaps the Greybeards will have told you that this world is _meant_ to be destroyed by Alduin. That we have grown too much, too fast, like a parasite. You must ask yourself, dovahkiin, _is this world really worth saving_? You have seen the joorre spread out and cut the land into little sections, into property as if they own it. The guards they deploy unevenly for the rich and the poor. The corruption in the Holds where no one can define who is good and who is bad.

"Is this world really worth saving?" he repeats.

Privately, and truly it is a private thought, because the dov in her head have quieted and retreated, Danaë contemplates her own question.

Has Paarthurnax grown tired of the joorre as well?

He's too good of a debater.

The old dovah would have been a scary joor had he been born one.

"Dovahkiin?" he presses.

"… I like this world. I don't want it to end."

_Not good enough. Not _reasonable _enough_.

"Would you stop the next world from being born?" Cut the cycle? Dam the river?

"The next world will have to take care of itself."

She's invested too much effort here.

**Cut Back**

_She's forgotten all about reporting the Esbern fellow to that Delphine girl_, notes Miinseqah happily. _This is going rather splendidly._

_Isn't it_? Sotlunvith asks smugly. _The only problem now is that she is associating herself with the traitor brother._

_I can hear you_, snaps Danaë, trying to keep track of the conversations she's having.

"Trouble, dovahkiin?"

"Much," she assures the old dovah.

**O Fortuna**

Danaë wonders how much time she can squander by staying at High Hrothgar when she mournfully remembers that the world does require a hero, whether it be an Altmer or a Redguard. The dragons in her head are claiming her quest is a waste of time—she partially agrees with them, but her morals have never been pressed out of her in spite of Sahloknir's attempts to scar her psyche. (Yes, she knows, but she's not exactly about to perform surgery on her mind to get him out.)

She treks her way down the snowy mountain and on to the road to Riften when she encounters a bandit camp, a dragon, and a keen-eyed giant that draws her into the fight.

_I refuse to kill this dragon_, she vows, crouching to avoid a bandit's wild swing. She drags the attention of all the fighters to her. It will lessen the injuries on the dragon thus allowing the dovah to survive a little longer.

On the downside, she's drinking health potions and healing herself so constantly, she has to consider drinking the bitter magicka potions to maintain a steady stream of golden light surrounding her body.

_Run_, suggests Beynraanjoor, _disappear, do something other than waste your elixirs._

_What, no suggestions, Miinseqah_? Danaë tosses at the gold-eyed wraith mentally.

_Find a safe refuge, _now, he orders her in a no-nonsense way.

_What? I'm trying to save my neck here and you want me to find a sanctuary in the middle of nowhere_?

_Take yourself out of battle now, briinah_! snaps Sahloknir, and since Danaë has never, _ever_ heard him refer to her as a sister or other affectation than 'joor' and 'elf' and 'dovahkiin', this jolts her into hightailing it out of the battle. She can see why, as another dragon has spotted the titanic fight and is drawn to it like a bee to a flower. At least he gets the attention, allowing her to slip away into the plains.

The only good thing about having about (_what is it now? Five talkative ones?_) dragons in one's head is that they spot things that your eyes pass by.

_Alcove against the cliff_?

Beynraanjoor shoots down that suggestion with a firm no. Too open, he explains curtly, to any attack from any wild animals or bandits.

Miinseqah cannot resist the tease: _Bit of an experience there, zeymah_?

Danaë wants to Shout in anger, but finds it more prudent to use it to sprint across the plains, to the base of a waterfall, into a crabber's shanty. She finds a cloth to hang over the doorway and falls on the bed, breathing heavily.

**Hasty Apology**

_I'm sorry—_

**Hurricane**

The memories hit Danaë like a tidal wave or a particularly gusty wind at the peaks of the Throat of the World. Her orange eyes roll back, her back arches in the air, and her last thought as a conscious being is that she is glad the crabber is dead and doesn't have to see her body contort.

Courtesy of the mudcrabs, of course.

She's not so cold as to kill an innocent man who hunts the crabs for a living.

* * *

**Author's Note(s): **It's true. I did forget about Sahloknir. I'm also thinking of cutting the storyline a bit back and focusing more on some quests for the hell of it. Again, name suggestions are welcome. _Extremely_ welcome. It gets harder and harder to type these, you know.

Dialogue gets a bit easier, though.


End file.
